THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


THE  LONDON  SPY 
THOMAS  BURKE 


By  Tlwmas  Burke 


The  London  Spy: 

a  book  of  town  travels 

LiMEHorsE   Nights: 

tales  of  chinatown 

More  Limehouse  Nights 

TwiNKLETOES 

Nights  in  Town  : 

A  LONDON  autobiography 

London  Lamps: 

A  BOOK  OF   songs 

Out  and  About  : 

more  nights  in  town 

The  Song  Book  of  Quong  Lee  of 

LiMEHOUSE 

The   Outer   Circle: 

rambles  in  remote  london 


THE  LONDON  SPY 

A  Book  of  Town  Travels 

BY 

THOMAS  BURKE 

AUTHOB  OF  "LIMEHOUSE  NIGHTS,"    "tHE  OUTER 
CIECLE,"   ETC. 


NEW  >lSjr  YORK 
GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT,  1922, 
BY  GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


THE  LONDON  SPY.     II 


PRINTED  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  OF  AMERICA 


DA 

f 


CONTENTS 


524ba 
LIBRARY 


PAGE 


I     In  the  Thick  of  It 9 

II  In  THE  Streets  of  Film-Land     ...       58 

III  In  the  Streets  of  Rich  Men     ...       83 

IV  In  the  Streets  of  the  Simple    .       .       .113 
V  In  the  Shops  and  the  Markets       .       .     140 

VI  In  the  Streets  of  Cyprus-on-Thames      .     167 

VII  In  the  Streets  of  Good  Company     .       .179 

VIII  In  the  Street  Called  Queer     .       .       .     214 

IX  In  the  Streets  of  the  Far  East       .        .     238 

X  In  the  Street  of  Beautiful  Children    .     256 

XI  In  the  Streets  of  Don't-Care  .       .       .     292 


THE  LONDON  SPY 


THE  LONDON  SPY 

— I— 

IN  THE  THICK  OF  IT 

I  HOPE  the  title  of  this  book  will  not  mislead 
you.  I  have  no  shocking  revelations  with  which 
to  humour  you;  no  exclusive  dinner-table  confessions 
to  disclose;  only  a  few  little  pictures  of  the  streets  to 
offer  you,  pictures  snapped  as  we  wander  among  the 
dim  alleys  or  mix  with  the  thickest  crowd,  watching 
the  road-men  at  work  in  the  Strand,  staring  up  at 
trapeze  artists  repairing  telephone  wires,  or  on  the 
embankment  watching  the  barges  go  by.  .  .  .  That 
sort  of  spying.   .   .   . 

Of  all  our  poets  who  have  attempted  In  one  way 
or  another  to  celebrate  London  in  song,  none  of  the 
illustrious  hundreds,  from  William  Dunbar  onward, 
has,  I  think,  got  so  near  the  heart  of  the  matter 
as  that  obscure  lyrist,  who  sang  discordantly, 
some  fifteen  years  ago,  to  the  mouth-organ  rather 
than  the  lyre.     How  does  the  doggerel  go? 

Let's  all  go  down  the  Strand ! 

('Ave  a  banana!) 
Let's  all  go  down  the  Strand ! 

I'll  be  leader,  you  can  march  behind, 

Come  with  me  and  see  what  we  can  find.  .  .  . 
9 


10  THE  LONDON  SPY 

The  very  London,  I  think.  Not  the  complete 
London :  only  a  tiny  facet  of  a  many-sided  stone ;  but 
large  enough  to  throw  up  a  flash  that  signals  London 
to  the  remote  corners  of  the  world,  as  Tipperary 
once  signalled  England.  The  Strand  is  by  no  means 
the  gayest  street  in  London.  To-day,  it  is  rather 
business-like.  There  is  none  of  the  caddish  larking 
of  years  ago :  it  is  no  longer  the  playground  of 
rich  ruffians  from  the  Army  and  Universities.  But 
its  business  is  the  business  of  pleasure,  and  its  fund 
of  delight  shows  no  sign  of  w^eakenlng.  What  it 
wants  in  sparkle  is  supplied  by  exuberance,  and  the 
banana  belongs  to  it.  The  banana,  a  somewhat 
solemn  fruit,  was  made,  by  this  song,  one  of  that 
facetious  company  of  tripe,  cheese,  kippers,  lodgers, 
and  the  clown's  string  of  sausages:  symbols  of 
Cockaigne. 

And  that's  what  I've  been  after — the  London 
banana,  in  its  haunts  and  humours. 

For  every  Cockney  London  has  a  personal  and 
secret  significance.  Each  of  us  sees  it  from  a  differ- 
ent angle.  In  each  of  us  it  evokes  differing  emo- 
tions, Intimate  and  unutterable  moods.  But  I  think 
Everyman's  London  holds  moving  crowds,  lights 
glaring  or  glittering  or  glowing,  profuse  shop-win- 
dows, street-markets,  dim  alleys,  long  roads  of  dark 
houses  running  to  mysterious  ends,  the  Strand,  Pic- 
cadilly Circus,  and  the  banana.  For  we  have  all, 
once  at  least,  been  down  the  Strand  in  what  I  may  call 


IN  THE  THICK  OF  IT  11 

the  banana  mood.  We  have  each,  at  some  time, 
made  one  of  nineteen  jolly  good  boys.  The 
hitiddley-hi-ti  spirit  has  a  knack  of  seizing  you  with- 
out warning  in  London,  when  the  shops  are  open, 
and  the  boys  and  the  girls  are  out,  and  the  'buses 
glide  and  impetuous  taxis  dart  and  double,  and 
there's  a  "something"  in  the  air — a  taste  of  Spring 
or  the  bite  of  frost.  Then  the  joy  of  the  streets 
comes  upon  you,  and  you  are  in  tune  with  the  crowd. 
You  don't  care  if  it  snows.  You're  ready  to  change 
hats  with  anybody. 

This  mood  gives  no  warning  of  Its  approach.  It 
may  come  upon  you  before  lunch  as  hotly  as  after 
dinner.  It  may  attack  you  in  Grosvenor  Square  as 
successfully  as  in  the  Strand;  in  Stratford  Broad- 
way or  Cromwell  Road;  In  Soho  or  WIgmore  Street. 
Let  there  be  three  of  you,  good  wanderers  or  loung- 
ers, and  a  fine  evening  (if  you  are  young,  a  wet  even- 
ing will  not  extinguish  your  squibs  and  crackers) ,  and 
the  spirit  of  the  banana  will  get  you  if  you  don't 
watch  out.  For  joy  of  London  Is  no  matter  of  liber- 
ties or  restrictions,  of  lights  and  drinks  and  suppers 
and  late  hours.  It  Is  within  you  and  the  streets,  al- 
ways; and  my  London  mornings  and  afternoons  are 
as  crowded  with  happy  hazards  as  Piccadilly  Circus 
at  seven  o'clock  in  the  evening.  Although  the 
authorities  treat  the  citizens  of  London  as  the  author- 
ities of  Oxford  treat  the  schoolboys  under  their 
charge,  they  can't  confiscate  my  tuck-box  of  London 


12  THE  LONDON  SPY 

Delight.    They  wouldn't  know  where  to  look  for  it. 

London's  banana  is  always  waiting  to  be  eaten. 
At  all  hours  I  may  enjoy  curious  encounters,  the  urge 
of  the  crowd,  the  glow  and  rustle  of  girls;  glamorous 
evenings  and  deep-sounding  midnights.  The  deli- 
cate shade  and  shimmer  of  Green  Park  at  eleven 
in  the  morning,  the  deep-lunged  mid-day  laughter  of 
Charing  Cross,  the  opulent  lights  of  the  Strand  at 
dusk — in  each  of  these  is  essence  of  London,  free  to 
all. 

Let  us  go  out  then,  and  mix  with  the  harsh  splen- 
dours of  the  day,  and  find  peace  on  the  suspended 
breath  of  midnight.  William  Monk  and  I  will  be 
leaders  and  you  can  march  behind. 

Monk  is  a  good  man  to  know.  He  is  the  perfect 
town  companion.  He  has  the  right  London  spirit. 
He  is  ready  to  go  "tatts"  at  any  time,  anywhere. 
He  doesn't  ask  what  the  occasion  is,  or  where  we 
are  going  now:  He  is  content  to  go.  Plan  or 
programme  he  detests.  Never  need  you  ask  him 
what  he  would  like  to  do.  He  will  exchange  hats 
in  Sloane  Street  or  philosophise  in  Newington  Butts. 
He  will  lunch  you  at  Prince's  or  join  you  at  a  Good 
Pull  Up  for  Carmen.  He  loves  to  idle  in  out-of- 
the-way  corners,  wherever  his  feet  may  carry  him; 
holding,  as  all  right-thinking  people  hold,  that  leisure 
is  the  true  life,  and  that  Britons  never  were  made 
to  be  slaves  of  the  vice  of  work.     He  is  as  happy 


IN  THE  THICK  OF  IT  13 

and  playful  In  Old  Ford  as  In  Cambridge  Circus;  at 
PentonvIUe  Road  as  at  Charing  Cross  or  The  Mall. 
For  him,  "being  out"  among  men  is  sufficient  holi- 
day; he  asks  no  dressing  or  added  grace;  and  being 
out  with  him,  though  he  is  by  many  years  my  senior, 
is  like  being  out  with  a  wide-eyed  nephew,  avid  of 
excitement.  To  all  the  common  Incidents  and  specta- 
cles of  the  London  day  he  brings  an  appetite.  Shops 
and  advertisement  hoardings,  queer  characters  and 
the  amiable  eccentricities  of  the  plain  man  amuse  and 
enchant  him.  His  immediate  radius  is  Illumined  by 
large  laughter,  and  his  company  floats  like  an  island 
of  felicity  through  the  beating  sea  of  the  pre-occu- 
pied  crowd. 

As  a  playfellow  of  the  pavements  he  Is  without 
blemish,  if  I  except  his  enthusiasm  for  the  novels  of 
Edgar  Saltus.  (There  I  cannot  meet  him,  for  I  have 
never  read  Edgar  Saltus.)  Often  have  he  and  I 
paced  twenty  streeted  miles  of  London,  moving  here 
and  there  as  the  mood  led  us,  caring  not  a  monkey's 
caress  where  the  hours  found  us  or  what  the  weather 
did  to  us,  but,  possessed  by  London,  wandering,  gos- 
siping, or  holding  rich  silences. 

Such  a  day  was  yesterday.  We  did  nothing  worth 
remarking.  We  had,  as  they  say,  nothing  to  show 
for  It,  and  I  can  make  no  claims  for  It. 

We  left  home  at  ten  o'clock,  the  respectable  hour, 
and  proceeded  leisurely  to  town.  For  these  morn- 
ing hours  the  avenues  of  work  best  suit  the  mood. 


14»  THE  LONDON  SPY 

for  there  is  no  more  stimulating  and  gratulatory 
pastime  than  that  of  standing  in  that  sterile  region 
East  of  St.  Paul's  and  West  of  Aldgate  Pump, 
watching  men  with  ten  times  our  income  moving 
actively  hither  and  thither  in  zealous  busy-ness. 
They  rush  or  plod,  with  furrowed  brow,  pre-occu- 
pied,  while  we,  whose  joint  incomes  would  barely 
pay  the  income-tax  of  one  of  them,  may  be  excused 
some  feeling  of  relish  in  indulging  our  fancy  and 
turning  this  way  or  that,  wherever  a  corner  invites 
to  a  dog-fight,  a  horse  down,  or  a  Punch  and  Judy 
show. 

For  we  also  were  once  of  the  City,  junior  clerks, 
and,  had  we  stayed  there,  might  now  be  like  one 
of  these,  in  a  position  of  command,  with  a  swollen 
salary  and  a  circumscribed  leisure,  a  cave-dweller, 
working  and  eating  below  the  earth's  surface.  We 
might  have  followed  the  example  of  those  well- 
groomed  young  clerks  in  the  advertisement  pictures, 
who  take  "courses"  in  business  proficiency  and  mind 
training,  and  are  summoned,  six  weeks  after  their 
first  lesson,  to  the  Board  Room  (chilly  words!) 
and  given  the  secretaryship  of  the  company.  We 
might  now  be  bobbing  in  and  out  of  the  City  every 
day  like  a  bally  shuttle — Surrey-City,  City-Surrey, 
Surrey-City.  As  it  is,  we  buy  our  bananas  where 
we  will,  and  choose  the  most  ripe,  far  beyond  the 
Surrey-City  section;  and  while  the  good  hard-work- 
ing citizens  disappear  into  doorways  and  go  upstairs 


IN  THE  THICK  OF  IT  15 

or  below  to  their  offices,  and  earn  their  country  cot- 
tages and  their  motor-cars  and  cigars,  we  turn  from 
Cheapside  into  Newgate  Street,  and  so  to  Holborn 
and  Kingsway  and  the  Strand. 

Wet  day  or  fine.  Spring  or  Winter,  in  the  candid 
sunlight  or  the  pensive  rain,  the  morning  streets  of 
London  carry  always  full  measure  of  pleasing  as- 
pects. There  is  the  crowd  and  there  are  shop- 
windows.  There  are  Mr.  Gamage's  windows,  with 
their  marvellous  riot  of  mechanical  contraptions 
that  draws  you  from  the  other  side  of  the  street. 
There  is  Leather  Lane  with  Its  cheap-Jack  stalls. 
There  is  Staple  Inn,  offering  moments  of  contempla- 
tion, and  Mr.  Glaisher's  "remainder"  bookshop. 
There  is  the  great  bald-faced  boulevard  of  Kings- 
way.  There  is  the  full  charactered  music  of  the 
Strand;  and  minute  by  minute  the  sweet  spell  of 
sky  and  mist  dressing  crude  buildings  with  grace, 
and  the  proud  procession  of  traffic. 

Though  I  best  love  London  in  Autumn  and 
mid-Winter,  she  wears  her  peculiar  beauty  In  the 
Spring;  and  I  find  that  season  as  generous  to  her 
as  to  the  fields  and  lanes  that  await  its  coming  for 
release  from  Winter's  bondage.  To  each  it  lends 
fresh  beauty.  To  the  woods  and  lanes,  while  the 
first  green  is  barely  upon  them,  comes  the  swallow, 
marking  the  blank  sky  with  wayward  curves  and 
angles.  The  hills  show  green  and  blue,  with  here 
and  there  a  vivid  acre  of  gold.    About  the  lanes  the 


16  THE  LONDON  SPY 

hawthorn  leans,  and  the  giant  beeches  transmute  the 
light  to  their  own  unearthly  beauty.  Cottage  doors 
are  newly  opened  to  the  air,  and  the  good  gossips 
come  out  to  the  porches  and  talk  of  the  prospect  of 
the  fruit  crops.  In  every  garden  the  boughs  of 
cherry  and  pear  are  putting  forth  bright  shoots 
against  the  flecked  blue  of  the  sky,  and  winged 
creatures  are  busy  in  their  lazy  way  about  the  hedge- 
row. It  Is  the  time  of  Germinal;  and  green,  the 
colour  of  awakening,  has  conquered  the  brown  of 
Winter-time  decay.  Deep  in  the  woods  primrose  and 
anemone  are  chiming  their  blue  and  gold  with  the  hue 
of  last  year's  leaves,  and  about  the  paths  at  twilight 
one  encounters  youth,  solitary  or  in  couples.  And 
while  the  lovers  love,  the  solitaries  muse  on  frag- 
ments of  Herrick  or  Spenser  or  Campion,  or  snatches 
of  Pervigilium  Veneris,  if  they  are  so  fortunate  as 
to  hold  within  their  minds  those  fragile  echoes  of 
springtides  past.  On  the  upper  reaches  of  the 
Thames  the  waters  sparkle  with  a  new  brilliance. 
The  houseboats  are  under  the  decorators,  and  In 
the  high  woods  above  the  river  the  birds  make 
separate  music  and  communal  colour.  The  golden- 
footed  goddess  is  walking.  The  lusty  pomp  begins. 
Year  by  year  this  miracle  is  repeated,  ye<  still  It 
moves  all  men  to  wonder  and  revival.  They  do 
not  accept  It  as  they  accept  Winter.  They  marvel 
anew,  and,  at  the  first  bland  breeze,  would,  If  they 
were   free,  be  off  and  away  on  the  roads,   not  to 


IN  THE  THICK  OF  IT  17 

ride,  but  to  tramp,  to  saunter,  to  make  casual  en- 
counters at  roadside  taverns  and  to  make  the  night's 
resting-place  where  the  night  finds  them. 

But  for  my  own  part  I  prefer  to  meet  this  miracle 
in  London.  I  know  not  where  the  white  road  runs, 
and  I'm  beggared  if  I  care.  I  like  to  let  London, 
transmuted  by  the  random  touch  of  Spring,  stir  my 
blood  with  her  new  vistas  and  new  aspects.  For 
London,  too,  is  sensible  to  this  spirit  of  unrest,  and 
turns  in  its  winterly  apparel,  and  listens.  The 
Spring  comes  more  slowly  upon  us,  perhaps,  than 
upon  the  countryside.  We  do  not  suddenly  get  the 
first  smell  of  something  new  in  the  air,  and  follow 
Its  delicate  trail;  but  day  by  day  I  become  aware 
of  an  Increasing  mildness  in  the  air  and  of  a  new 
spirit  In  the  streets,  and  I  begin  to  debate  whether 
I  shall  leave  my  overcoat  at  home. 

And  then  one  morning,  my  business  or  my  whims 
take  me  through  the  squares  or  the  parks,  and 
look! — the  trees  are  alight  with  buds  and  busy  with 
birds;  and  something  steals  upon  me  and  settles 
lightly  within  me,  and  I  become  silly  and  hungry  for 
colour  and  song;  and  London  feeds  me  there  and 
then  with  a  revelation  of  Springtide,  and  the  very 
traffic  is  attuned  to  my  vagrant  mood. 

My  eyes  are  opened.  My  heart  sings  Foi  che 
sapete  ...  I  note  that  the  girls  have  packed 
away  their  furs  and  come  out  In  frivolous  window- 
curtains.     I  see  that  the  painters  and  upholsterers 


18  THE  LONDON  SPY 

are  busy  in  hotels  and  on  shop-fronts;  that  Spring 
suitings  are  filling  the  tailors'  shops,  and  that  the 
early  sunshine  is  conspiring  with  them  by  betraying 
the  rubbed  places  of  my  Dennis  Bradleys.  Gardeners 
are  busy  in  the  parks  and  public  gardens,  bedding 
out  (I  think  that's  what  they  call  it),  and  all  the 
youth  of  England  is  on  fire,  plying  the  makers  of 
athletic  goods  with  copious  orders.  The  'bus  con- 
ductor says  assertively  that  we  shall  soon  'ave  Easter 
'ere,  and  old  ladies  remark  to  each  other,  with  naive 
surprise,  how  the  evenings  are  drawing  out,  dear.  In 
suburban  railway-trains,  dusty  talk  of  hard  times 
and  political  knavery  is  shelved,  and  bright  hopes 
are  expressed  for  "my  early  peas,"  my  "Lady  Gays," 
and  "my  crocuses."  Sage  advice  is  offered  and  taken 
on  pruning,  slugs,  manure,  and  grass;  and  eyes  shine 
with  the  old  mild  frenzy  of  the  earth.  Adam's  hobby 
is  the  topic;  seed  catalogues  are  things  that  matter; 
relieved,  if  at  all,  by  conjectures  as  to  the  achieve- 
ments of  Kent,  Surrey  and  Middlesex,  on  the  cricket- 
field. 

Then  I  recognise  that  the  Spring  has  been  with 
us  these  two  weeks,  and  I  throw  up  my  office-window, 
and  the  voice  of  London  pours  clearly  upon  my  ear 
with  the  shock  of  remembered  song.  I  have  heard 
it  through  the  Winter  as  a  muffled  throbbing,  but 
now  the  muft  is  removed,  and  we  are  in  close  contact. 
I  begin  to  distinguish  its  instrumentation — the  buzz 
of  the  taxis,  the  hum  of  the  'buses,  and  the  rumble 


IN  THE  THICK  OF  IT  19 

of  horse-traffic,  and  1  recognise  that  London  has 
other  birds  than  sparrows.  Down  with  substantial 
curtains!  Throw  open  doors  to  the  soft  morning! 
The  truant  has  returned! 

The  season  has  begun.  Lord's  and  the  Oval  make 
signs  and  promises.  The  sharrabangs  devise  new 
routes  and  extend  the  old.  Out  come  the  tennis 
racquet  and  last  year's  flannels  for  anxious  inspec- 
tion. The  People  of  Importance  (who  have  never 
been  missed)  advise  the  Morning  Post  of  their  re- 
turn from  the  Mediterranean.  Taxi-drivers  and 
'bus-drivers  coquette  with  courtesy,  under  the  in- 
fluence of  water-colour  skies  and  temperate  air. 
Tops  and  skipping-ropes  break  out  among  the  chil- 
dren; the  Italianate  ice-cream  barrows  appear,  and 
the  greengrocers'  shops  assume  fresh  complexions. 
English  violets  and  primroses  appear  at  the  kerbside> 
and  everywhere,  in  the  poorest  alley  as  in  the  noble 
thoroughfare,  in  Duckett  Street,  Stepney,  as  in  Bond 
Street,  there's  a  something  about  that  sets  the  good 
folk  chirping. 

Old  Pugnutt,  of  Hoxton,  is  giving  all  spare  hours 
to  his  three  square  yards  of  front  and  six  square 
yards  of  back  garden,  fixing  and  transplanting,  mak- 
ing his  windows  gay  with  newly-painted  window-boxes 
and  pots  of  flowering  plants.  They  won't  live.  Hox- 
ton air  will  see  to  that,  and  Pugnutt  knows  it.  Why, 
then,  does  he  do  it?  Why  make  this  forlorn  enter- 
prise at  beautifying  Hoxton?     Because  it's  Spring- 


20  THE  LONDON  SPY 

time;  even  his  poor  veins  are  filled  with  genial  fire, 
and  "something"  makes  him  do  it.  Here,  as  in  the 
country,  doors  are  set  open  to  the  ardent  air,  and 
Mrs.  Pugnutt  goes  into  her  "cleaning"  not  perfunc- 
torily, as  in  Winter,  but  with  something  of  a  passion; 
and  as  the  rooms  are  cleaned,  so  something  of  dusti- 
ness falls  from  her  heart.  She  and  her  neighbours 
no  longer  hurry  past  each  other,  their  arms  pinched- 
in  under  thin  shawls,  their  noses  eager  for  the 
kitchen  fire.  They  dally  at  the  corner,  and  under  the 
candid  eyes  of  their  playmate  the  Spring,  they  smile 
kindly  upon  old  enemies. 

"What  a  lovely  day,  to  be  sure,  Mrs.  Pugnutt?" 

"Ah,  quite  bucks  you  up  to  feel  the  sun,  don't  it? 
Things  don't  seem  'alf  so  bad  in  the  Spring,  do 
they?" 

So  they  renew  their  serviceable  philosophy  and 
their  old  wonder  at  the  warmth  and  brightness  of 
the  sun,  and  debate  in  new  terms  the  hardness  of 
the  times,  and  part  cheerfully,  whatever  the  occasion, 
thanking  God  that  they've  got  a  nice  fine  day  for  it. 

The  day  and  the  day's  work  go  swiftly,  and  we 
no  longer  dash  home  by  Tube,  but  try  for  the  top 
of  the  'bus;  or,  if  we  live  not  too  far  afield,  we  walk 
home  with  Angeline  through  the  chill  light  of  the 
evening. 

These  Spring  twilights  have  not  the  intimate  warm 
serenity  of  the  first  Autumn  twilights;  rather,  they 
are  aloof,  perturbing.     Nature  is  in  labour,  and  the 


IN  THE  THICK  OF  IT  21 

lyric  light  of  the  day  is  settled  into  something 
strained.  Nowhere,  I  think,  not  even  in  a  desert  of 
snow,  does  one  suffer  the  sense  of  desolation  so  acute- 
ly as  on  a  March  evening  in  a  side-street,  with  a 
lone  bird  piping  to  the  clouded  sky.  Life  seems  colder 
than  a  January  dawn,  sadder  than  that  plain  where 
Childe  Roland  journeyed.  The  pulse  of  things  is 
then  at  its  lowest  beat,  for  it  is  the  long  moment  of 
the  earth's  agony  before  the  sudden  rise,  the  new 
birth.  Yet,  though  melancholy  more  profound  than 
the  melancholy  of  Autumn  be  about  us,  we  are  not 
dismayed:  We  know  its  meaning.  We  know- 
that  in  the  morning  we  shall  have  flowers  and  kind 
air  and  frolic  skies;  and  with  Angeline  we  discuss 
field-path  rambles  and  Saturday  and  Sunday  walks 
round  the  more  pastoral  Home  Counties. 

Under  the  smart  sunshine  every  little  lost  corner 
awakes  and  chirps.  Even  the  morose  alleys  of  the 
City — Walbrook,  Bucklersbury,  Budge  Row,  Loth- 
bury — shed  a  little  of  their  dinge  and  misanthropy, 
and  seek  harmony  with  humanity.  The  river,  from 
Chelsea  to  Woolwich,  throws  back  the  fresh  light 
in  the  morning,  and  never  is  it  so  lovely  as  on  a 
night  of  Spring  under  the  moon.  In  the  Parks  and 
on  the  Commons,  from  Finchley  to  Wimbledon, 
from  Barking  to  Ealing,  youth  is  "out  to  play,"  and 
they  go  to  their  games  like  prisoners  from  cells. 
A  vast  increment  of  energy  surges  through  the  city 
and  through  its  people.     Everywhere  something  is 


22  THE  LONDON  SPY 

doing.  The  Spring  has  got  into  them.  Our  laugh- 
ing Lady  Greensleeves  has  kissed  them. 

It  soon  dies  down,  this  sudden  burst,  and  by  June, 
when  the  hot  days  begin,  there  is  a  perceptible 
languor  in  the  streets,  and  men  talk  of  their  holidays. 
But  while  it  lasts  it  is  magnificent.  It  is  a  city 
in  full  holiday.  We  are  all  appetites,  and  the  Spring 
gives  zest  to  all  our  doings.  We  let  business  stay, 
and  we  drink  with  gusto,  not  to  quench  thirst  or  to 
warm  or  to  cool  ourselves,  but  for  joy  of  the  Spring. 
We  sing  old  songs,  and  we  make  new  songs,  and 
London  joins  in  the  chorus.  Even  a  'bus-ride  be- 
comes a  holiday  event — not  organised  and  decked 
with  White  City  flam-jams,  but  an  impromptu  carni- 
val of  Spring  Worship,  deep,  rich,  fluent  and  com- 
pelling. The  fountains  in  Trafalgar  Square  seem 
charged  with  effei-v^escence,  and  break  the  morning 
light  into  a  million  drops  of  sunshine.  We  no  longer 
go  about  our  business  with  set  faces.  We  are  awake. 
We  look  about  us  and  upward.  After  long  crouch- 
ing over  Winter  fires,  we  straighten  our  shoulders 
gladly.  We  begin  to  dawdle  and  the  windows  of 
Mr.  Thomas  Cook  and  the  railway  oflfices  are  set 
out  with  allurements  that  give  excuse  for  dawdling. 

The  pale  ofl!ice-boy  ("Sydney's  holidays  are  in  Sep- 
tember"— Miss  Vesta  Tilley)  looks  longingly  upon 
them,  and  lags  in  his  errand;  September  is  half  a 
year  away,  and  already  he  feels  the  pull.  For  him 
and  for  me,  the  exhortation  "Spend  Easter  in  the 


IN  THE  THICK  OF  IT  23 

Tyrol"  is  but  a  gibe,  an  aggravation  of  our  vernal 
unrest.  The  best  that  we  shall  achieve  will  be  a 
Bank  Holiday  at  Southend  or  the  South  Coast;  but 
I  warrant  that  even  that  brief  pilgrimage  will  ren- 
der him  and  me  a  measure  of  travel-ecstasy  denied 
to  those  whose  circumstances  make  them  always  free 
of  Homburg,  Norway  or  the  Rhine.  We  shall  carry 
the  Spring  under  our  waistcoats. 

But  if  I  cannot  go  to  the  clime  where  the  Spring 
is  born,  there  are  many  little  corners  of  London 
where  I  can  touch  hands  with  it.  In  the  Winter,  I 
am  for  the  dark  warmth  of  the  Slavonic  Quarters — 
Aldgate,  Stepney,  Spitalfields,  St.  Luke's — where 
Winter  has  a  native  cousinship;  but  in  the  Spring 
I  am  called  to  the  nonchalant  skies  of  our  Latin 
Quarters — Soho,  Charlotte  Street,  and  Clerkenwell. 
It  is  to  Clerkenwell  and  its  lazy  laughter  that  I 
am  first  called  at  the  earliest  taste  of  soft  weather, 
and  thither  I  make  pilgrimage  to  greet  old  friends. 
I  lounge  down  Eyre  Street  Hill,  catching  an  aro- 
matic whiff  from  the  hot  bright  byways  of  Genoa, 
and  humming  UAddio  a  Napoli;  and  at  my  keyless 
humming  out  swings,  from  his  store,  Vincento  or 
Alessandro,  and  I  am  bidden  enter,  and  a  cork  is 
drawn  and  we  drink  a  brisk  bottle  to  La  Primavera. 
And  Alessandro  takes  down  his  guitar  and  sings  some 
lucid  melody  of  old  Naples. 

After  an  hour  in  Italy,  I  take  an  hour  in  France, 
in  Frith  Street,  and  take  my  lunch  in  Charlotte  Street, 


^4  THE  LONDON  SPY 

with  Its  Austrian-Swiss  atmosphere,  Its  little  white 
cafes  and  coffee-bars,  and  Its  flasks  of  rude  but  jocund 
ChlantI,  which  Is  very  Spring — sharp,  rough,  but 
tinct  with  sunshine.  The  season  demands  these 
things.  Steaks  from  the  grill,  cuts  from  the  joint, 
and  tankards  of  beers  are  an  offence  to  the  occasion; 
the  coming  of  Spring  presumes  more  gracious  ob- 
servance. One  must  greet  the  visitor  with  the  cus- 
toms of  the  visitor's  country,  with  a  little  bunch 
of  violets  for  courtesy,  and  wine  for  celebration, 
and  songs  under  the  moon  of  April. 

Strangely  moving  are  those  Spring  moonlights  In 
the  city.  During  the  day,  the  Spring  Is  In  your  blood. 
It  Is  expressive;  visible  and  vocal.  But  under  the 
young  moon  It  creeps  to  your  soul  and  makes  sanc- 
tuary there,  and  cleanses  you  and  blesses  you.  The 
moon  of  Winter  has  Its  austerity,  the  moon  of 
Autumn  Its  majesty,  the  moon  of  Summer  Its  glory; 
but  this  moon  of  the  child-season — one  Is  hushed  and 
humbled  before  It  as  before  young  virginity.  In 
field  or  on  hlU-top,  In  street  or  alley  or  square,  the 
moon  of  Spring  makes  the  night  mad  with  secret 
raptures.  You  may  stand  In  PImlIco  under  that 
moonlight,  and  be  shaken  out  of  yourself,  and  come 
chastened  from  Its  delicate  hauntlngs.  You  may  get 
an  echo  of  Its  mysteries  In  Cheapslde,  and  draw 
refreshment  from  It  on  the  Embankment. 

For  Spring  Is  the  true  beginning  of  the  New  Year. 
Then,  not  in  January,  do  we,  old  and  young,  look 


IN  THE  THICK  OF  IT  25 

back  and  forward,  and  remember  and  resolve.  It 
Is  then  that  we  desire  to  go  apart  and  seek  self- 
communion,  for  this  season  of  the  purification  of 
Nature  is  the  season  of  the  purification  of  man,  the 
season  of  avowal  and  renewal. 

"Now  love  ye  to-night  who  loved  never,  now  ye 
who  have  loved,  love  anew!" 

But  I  indulge  too  much  my  habit  of  wandering. 
Where  were  we? 

Oh,  yes,  in  Kingsway,  going  towards  the  Strand. 
In  the  Strand,  we  had  an  encounter.  Monk  and  I; 
one  that  indicated  a  morning  draught.  We  took  it 
at  Rule's,  a  place  that  has  blossomed  into  a  "second 
period,"  and  become  a  "place,"  where  the  merry 
old  actors  meet  under  the  guaidianship  of  Mr.  Tom 
Bell.  They  are  the  last  of  the  old  guard,  for  the 
younger  school  of  actors  wears  now  the  respectabil- 
ity of  Golder's  Green.  The  ambitious  young  don't 
lounge.  They  are  not  to  be  seen  in  crowded  places. 
They  live  the  quiet  life  of  the  bank  manager  or  the 
merchant. 

But  in  Rule's,  the  old  style  is  met  at  mid-day, 
or  after  the  show;  comedians  erect,  with  bent  elbow 
and  back-thrown  head,  tragedians  leaning  on  the  bar. 
Each  harks  back  to  the  speech  of  an  earlier  time, 
and  my-dear-old-boy's  the  new  comer,  apparently 
overjoyed  at  meeting  again.  Each  persistently  begs 
the  other  to  have  it  with  him;  "It's  rny  turn,  dear  old 


26  THE  LONDON  SPY 

thing!"  And  always  they  act;  always  they  talk  to 
their  neighbour  as  though  he  were  at  the  back  of  the 
house,  articulating  each  syllable  and  opening  each 
sentence  with  "Dear — old — chap — let — me — tell — 
you — this.  .  ."  so  that  one  fears  to  listen  lest  some 
secret  of  high  import,  better  unspoken,  be  about  to 
leave  their  lips. 

They  have  cascades  of  talk,  but  no  conversation. 
Before  one  man  can  finish  a  sentence,  the  other  is 
off  on  a  new  theme.  While  one  is  in  the  middle  of 
a  funny  story,  you  may  see  the  other's  lips  twitch- 
ing to  tell  a  better  one.  Always  they  complain  about 
the  times,  and  always  they  are  friendly  to  all  comers. 
The  star  drinks  with  the  chorus  gentleman,  the  be- 
ginner with  the  bill-topper;  and  each  congratulates 
the  other  on  his  work,  dear  old  boy !  And  truly  they 
are  dear  old  boys.  I  have  heard  Stock  Exchange 
men  and  others  in  the  city  use  the  term,  but  there  it 
is  false  in  spirit  and  application;  a  mere  skeleton 
without  flesh  or  soul.  But  these  are  a  happy  band 
of  brothers,  who  make  of  Rule's  a  large-spirited  and 
democratic  club. 

When  Mrs.  O'Brien  (Carrie  Julian)  left  its  doors 
it  fell  away  and  ceased  to  be  known  as  a  "place;" 
but  after  its  decline  In  the  war-years,  it  has  picked 
up;  and  now,  while  it  Is  not  a  place  to  which  a  man 
should  (or  would)  take  his  wife,  it  Is  what  a  bar 
ought  to  be — a  place  where  men  are  honestly  them- 


IN  THE  THICK  OF  IT  27 

selves  in  their  raw  and  natural  state,  free  from  the 
imposed  niceties  of  speech  and  intercourse. 

I  know  no  reason  why  women  should  not  take  a 
glass  of  wine  in  a  bar,  as  they  take  their  coffee 
after  shopping,  and  they  should  have  their  own  bars. 
The  mixed  bar  is  an  anomaly  and  neither  men  nor 
women  are  comfortable  in  them.  There  should  be 
dainty  taverns,  owned  and  conducted  by  women  for 
women.  As  the  man,  lonely  and  seeking  company, 
may,  in  any  part  of  London,  find  conversation  over 
a  drink,  and  sometimes  meet  quaint  or  brilliant  char- 
acter, so  should  the  lonely  woman  be  able  to  freshen 
her  mind  with  talk  with  other  women.  There  is  no 
conversation  so  racy  as  that  held  with  strangers  on 
the  common  ground  of  a  tavern.  It  is  always 
amusing  and  often  surprising;  and  those  who 
love  to  explore  other  minds,  and  discover  curious 
points  of  view,  may  have  excellent  and  rich  talks 
with  unknowns  in  bars.  The  clerk,  the  shop-keeper, 
the  taxi-driver,  the  merchant,  will  illuminate  for  you 
positions  and  attitudes  and  forms  of  conduct  that 
may  long  have  been  mysteries  to  you,  dark  spots 
in  the  inwardness  of  the  Englishman. 

And  I  have  never  understood  why  women  should 
not  be,  among  themselves,  free  of  this  casual  inter- 
course and  acquaintanceship.  Many  of  my  personal 
friends  were  first  acquaintances  met  in  these  public 
places,  which  offer  illimitable  fields  of  human  com- 
panionship; and  acquaintance  grew,  from  occasional 


28  THE  LONDON  SPY 

meetings  and  talks,  into  close  knowledge  and  under- 
standing and  friendship.  Too  often  our  friends  grow 
upon  us  and  with  us  from  school  and  business  and 
family;  we  have  not  each  sought  the  other  out.  But 
with  these  friends  of  mine,  we  met,  surveyed,  and,  as 
the  phrase  goes,  "took  to  each  other."  Outside  the 
tavern  we  would  never  have  met,  as  our  interests 
were  worlds  apart;  and  we  would  have  missed  much 
goodly  communion.  How  the  lonely  woman  ever 
finds  friends  or  acquaintances,  I  know  not.  Every- 
body feels  that  somewhere  exists  the  ideal  friend,  but 
if  you  are  limited  to  your  home  circle  or  your  office 
set,  how  to  find  the  friend?  Well,  I  have  found  mine 
by  ranging  hither  and  thither,  and  picking  and  choos- 
ing sympathetic  spirits,  and  I  would  like  to  see  the 
lonely  woman  free  to  enjoy  similar  opportunities. 
The  tea-shop  affords  no  such  opportunity.  You  dare 
not  speak  to  your  neighbour  in  those  places;  if  you 
do,  you  are  met  at  once  with  a  suspicious  eye  and  a 
grunt  or  a  monosyllable.  You  are  checkmated  at 
first  move. 

That  attitude  is  frowned  upon  at  Rule's  and  all 
such  good  places.  When  we  entered  we  were  at 
once  recognised  by  a  man,  who  drew  us  into  a  goodly 
circle  of  four.  The  bar  was  crowded  with  choice 
fellows  and  merry  comedians,  who,  by  grace  of  tav- 
ern atmosphere,  are  much  funnier  there  than  they 
are  allowed  to  be  on  the  London  stage.  Unhappily, 
much  of  that  fun  may  not  be  transferred  to  the 


IN  THE  THICK  OF  IT  29 

printed  page.  There  were  stories  .  .  .  and 
stories. 

We  gathered  half  a  dozen  of  the  best;  then  moved 
westward  from  the  gasconade  of  Maiden  Lane  to 
the  sparkle  of  the  Square,  and  lunched  at  the  Ivy, 
where  are  perfect  cooking  and  that  excelling  service 
that  conceals  itself.  I  am  often  asked  by  young 
country  friends  which  is  the  best  restaurant  in  Lon- 
don, and  I  can  never  answer  them.  There  is  no  best 
restaurant  in  London,  and  there  is  no  best  church 
in  London.  In  so  intimate  a  matter  as  religion  or 
food  there  can  be  no  standard  of  perfection.  Each 
man  has  his  own  best.  My  choice  is  always  the  Ivy, 
opposite  the  Ambassador's  Theatre.  There  you 
have  elegant  appointments,  a  masterly  chef,  and  a 
noble  cellar. 

I  have  no  interest  in  the  Ivy,  and  I  am  not  getting 
paid  for  this.  Far  from  it.  Even  when  I  can  afford 
to  lunch  or  dine  there  (and  I  seldom  can)  I  miss  the 
welcome  that  was  mine  when  It  was  In  Its  beginning 
days.  Only  the  very  regular  or  the  very  expensive 
customer  gets  that  now.  Instead  of  being  ushered 
to  the  old  corner-table  on  the  ground  flour,  by  the 
window,  I  am  sent  upstairs.  You  see,  the  Ivy  is 
now  successful  and  famous,  and  I  do  It  no  credit. 
When  It  first  opened,  under  the  original  ownership, 
it  was  only  one  room  with  a  bare  floor  and  a  few 
rough  mural  decorations,  and  you  could  dine  there 
for  two  shillings.     Now  it  has  acquired  the  whole 


30  THE  LONDON  SPY 

corner-block,  and  wears  oak  panelling,  thick  carpets, 
and  shaded  lights  for  each  table.  Formerly  It  was 
the  haunt  of  hard-up  gentlemen  of  the  theatre;  now 
It  Is  crowded  with  plutocratic  "stars"  and  the  smart 
people  who  affect  that  company.  In  Its  new  and 
elaborate  raiment.  It  looks  with  slightly  raised  eye- 
brows at  my  three-year-old  suit.  I  don't  fit.  Still, 
when  I  am  asked  out  to  lunch  and  asked  to  name 
my  restaurant,  I  always  name  the  Ivy. 

We  lingered  over  coffee  and  watched  the  new  ar- 
rivals. A  pleasant  pastime,  this.  Taking  meals  out 
Is  not  yet  an  Instinctive  habit  with  the  English.  Popu- 
lar In  the  seventeenth  and  eighteenth  centuries,  it 
fell  Into  disuse  In  the  nineteenth,  and  it  is  still  much 
of  a  function.  Manners  and  manner  for  the  restau- 
rant and  the  home  differ  sharply.  The  Englishman 
does  not  walk  into  a  restaurant  as  into  his  own  dln- 
ingroom.  He  "enters"  as  to  a  stage.  It  is  a  self-con- 
scious parade,  and  natural  grace  becomes  deliberate 
gracefulness.  The  Englishman — bless  him  for  it — • 
always  blinks  at  the  limelight.  He  Is  conscious  of 
making  one  at  a  public  occasion.  He  looks  about  him 
with  a  cold  glassy  stare.  Seldom  does  he  appear  at 
home.  He  seems  to  miss  the  conveniences  of  his  own 
table,  and  Its  ever-present  attendance;  and  the  covert 
eye-shots  at  the  waiter,  who  Is  always  somewhere 
else,  weary  him. 

After  coffee  we  again  wandered.  We  thought  of 
a  matinee,  and  thought  better  of  It.     There  was  no 


IN  THE  THICK  OF  IT  31 

concert  that  attracted  us,  so  we  parted  for  awhile — 
Monk  to  do  a  little  work,  I  to  the  august  quiet  of 
the  London  Library.  A  wonderful  institution,  the 
London  Library;  and  it  and  St.  James'  Square  are 
in  happy  accord;  their  moods  blend.  It  gives  me  the 
use  of  the  second-best  library  in  London,  and  the 
very  best  reading  and  v/riting  room;  It  permits  me 
to  borrow  ten  volumes  at  a  time  and  keep  them  for 
three  months  if  I  wish;  and  all  for  a  yearly  charge 
of — three  guineas.  There  Is  no  other  library  In  Eng- 
land that  affords  such  facilities  to  Its  subscribers  at 
so  low  a  rate.  One  salutes  Carlyle,  its  founder, 
every  time  one  enters  Its  doors. 

We  met  again  later,  In  those  suave  hours  be- 
tween tea  and  dinner  when  London  is  tuning-up 
for  the  evening  surge  of  song,  and  the  feminine  twi- 
light gleams  in  primrose  and  grey,  and  the  piquant 
odour  of  tea  and  toast  pours  from  the  tea-shops 
with  compelling  advertisement  of  the  delights  of  five 
o'clock.  Full  of  wonder  were  the  streets,  cluttered 
with  the  going-home  crowd,  lit  by  lamp  and  shop, 
magical  with  movement,  and  calling  us  with  deluding 
distances  and  starry  miles.  The  shops  were  open, 
and  their  treasures  lay  before  us,  newly  guised  by 
the  lustre  of  concealed  lamps.  Regent  Street  glowed 
flamboyantly  against  the  night,  each  of  its  butter- 
fly shops  a  jazz  of  colour,  a  vers  lihre  of  publicity; 
while  Piccadilly  Circus  was  a  transformation  "set," 
a  riot  of  colour  and  dazzle  and  blaze. 


32  THE  LONDON  SPY 

This  bravura  would  not  suit  all  parts  of  London. 
There  are  women  who  are  decorated  by  jewels,  and 
women  who  beautify  the  jewels,  and  women  who  do 
neither.  They  sit  well  upon  Piccadilly  Circus,  lend- 
ing beauty  and  receiving  dignity,  but  the  homely 
beauty  of  the  East  End  Is  not  of  the  kind  that  is 
emphasised  by  the  lustre  of  gems.  The  hushed  semi- 
tones of  dim  streets,  of  silken  twilights  Interrupted 
by  suave  lamplight — these  require  no  bedlzenment. 
But  to  Piccadilly  Circus  the  jewels  belong,  and  she 
wears  them  splendidly.  I  pass  through  it  every 
night,  yet  never  can  I  pass  without  an  applauding 
thrill  and  that  catch  of  the  breath  which  marks  our 
recognition  of  good  dramatic  work. 

Away  they  go — these  movies  in  light :  motor- 
cars in  motion,  liquor  flowing  from  bottles,  flags  fly- 
ing and  messages  calling  to  you  across  the  face  of  the 
night  to  Eat  This  or  Drink  That  or  Keep  That 
Schoolgirl  Complexion.  Blue  and  green  and  red 
and  yellow  and  amber,  flowing  and  flashing,  they 
spell  their  foolish  fables  Into  the  night  and  Into  my 
eye  and  brain,  and  vex  and  dazzle  and  delight  me. 
Your  Londoner  is  always  a  child,  loving  "sights" 
and  spectacles,  and  our  advertising  experts  have 
gauged  him  well,  in  this  matter.  It  behoves  Mr. 
Brock,  of  the  Crystal  Palace,  to  look  to  it.  Every 
night  we  have  six  or  seven  displays,  each  of  which 
is  as  exciting  as  the  fireworks;  and  none  of  them  to 
the  benefit  of  Mr.  Brock.    Piccadilly  Circus  has  the 


IN  THE  THICK  OF  IT  33 

best  show,  but  that  at  Leicester  Square  runs  It  close; 
while  Cambridge  Circus,  the  Embankment  and  Ox- 
ford Street  all  array  themselves  in  an  evening  dress 
of  spangle  and  gem  that  brings  them  into  competi- 
tion with  Broadway  at  night.  I  hope  Broadway 
knows  about  it,  and  is  pulling  up  its  socks. 

Around  Soho  we  wandered,  meeting  friends  re- 
leased from  toil,  and  calling  here  and  calling  there. 
A  chat  and  a  stroll  and  a  drink  and  a  stroll;  and  our 
party  became  four,  and  we  took  a  tray  and  a  tankard 
at  Snow's,  the  cheapest  decent  dining-place  in  the 
West  End. 

All  types  and  characters  dine  at  Snow's — rising 
actors,  rising  or  decaying  journalists,  taxi-drivers, 
ladies  of  the  chorus,  clerks,  film  workers,  wanderers 
like  ourselves,  and  those  nondescript  solitaries,  who 
are  too  shabby  and  diflident  to  be  anybody,  and  too 
distinguished  of  brow  to  be  nobody.  Snow's  is  ar- 
ranged on  the  old  pew  system,  and  there  are  no 
table  cloths.  Your  dishes,  your  bread  and  your  drink 
are  brought  to  you  on  your  own  little  tray,  and  for 
something  less  than  two  shillings  you  may  feed 
splendidly  there  on  plain  English  food,  in  a  pleasant 
homely  atmosphere,  and  may  read  all  the  papers.  A 
good  place  to  know.  Now  that  "The  Sceptre,"  with 
its  age-long  tradition,  is  closed.  Snow's  and  Stone's 
are  the  only  chop-houses  left  in  the  West;  and  of 
the  two  I  prefer  Snow's.  The  company  is  more 
Interesting  and  diversified  and  less  prosperous  than 


34  THE  LONDON  SPY 

the  company  of  Stone's,  which  is  mainly  lawyers  and 
Civil  Servants. 

It  occurs  to  me  that  there  is  a  fresh  field  for  the 
restaurateur  in  London.  In  odd  corners  of  London 
you  will  find  restaurants  for  all  nations — French, 
Swiss,  Italian,  German,  Spanish,  Greek,  Chinese, 
Japanese,  Hungarian,  Russian,  American,  Serbian, 
Norwegian,  Armenian,  Albanian,  Czecho-Slovakian, 
and  Welsh.  But — there  are  no  restaurants  for  the 
provincials.  Why  not?  I  am  sure  that  the  visitor 
from  the  remote  shires,  bewildered  by  the  choice 
of  restaurants,  or  weary  of  cosmopolitan  cuisine, 
would  turn  with  delight  to  a  cafe  where  he  might 
get  the  food  of  his  country  and  hear  the  accent  of 
his  lanes.  There  should  be  a  Yorkshire  restaurant, 
a  Lancashire  restaurant,  a  Devonshire  restaurant, 
a  Cornish  restaurant,  a  Norfolk  restaurant,  offering 
pasties,  junkets,  pies,  hot-pots,  Bakewell  puddings, 
dumplings.  Not  only  would  they  attract  their  wan- 
derers and  the  "Society  of  So-and-so  Men  in  Lon- 
don" but  the  curious  Londoner,  who  is  always 
searching  for  new  table  thrills,  would  gladly  renew 
acquaintance  with  dishes  tasted  on  rare  holidays. 
I'm  sure  there's  money  In  It,  and  I  present  the  Idea 
to  any  enterprising  woman  anxious  to  start  in 
business. 

To  the  streets  again.  A  theatre?  A  music-hall? 
The  Hoiborn,  the  Euston?  Not  to-night.  The  thea- 
tre is  a  pleasant  refuge,  but  we  were  In  the  mood  for 


IN  THE  THICK  OF  IT  35 

less  formal  entertainment;  and  I  knew  that  about 
the  streets  we  would  find  bands  and  organs  and  cof- 
fee bars  and  other  bars,  and  immediately  outside 
the  theatres  good  fun  for  which  there  is  no  charge. 
Walking  up  Shaftesbury  Avenue,  we  were  enter- 
tained by  contortionists,  the  gentleman  with  soup 
spoons  who  makes  merry  music  with  them  against 
his  poor  knees  and  elbows,  itinerant  gramophones, 
vocalists,  elocutionists,  real  kilted  Scots  with  bag- 
pipes (from  Aldgate)  and  small  boys  with  their 
attempted  songs  and  their  abrupt  breakdown  at  the 
warning  cry  of  "Caw-pur!"  Why  go  inside?  More 
healthy  and  more  refreshing  to  eat  your  banana 
or  your  toffee-apple  down  our  alley. 

So  we  strolled  East  and  West,  and  London  soaked 
into  us  and  enriched  us,  and  brought  us  out  in  full 
flower  of  amiable  and  peculiar  talk.  We  ranged 
the  philosophies,  and  remembered  good  stories,  %nd 
told  better  ones,  and  Monk  with  buxom  face  and 
twinkling  eye,  quoted  Edgar  Saltus,  and  we  walked 
to  the  fluent  pace  of  the  night. 

We  cov^ered  many  miles.  Starting  from  Piccadilly 
Circus  we  challenged  the  mysteries  of  Barnsbury  and 
Canonbury,  and  finished  late  in  "The  London  Ap- 
prentice" at  Hoxton,  striking  in  our  path  beautiful 
episodes  and  curious  drama  in  those  shy  quarters 
that  are  so  generous  with  impressions  to  the  ama- 
teur. Not  in  the  great  roads  of  London,  its  hotels 
or  big  houses,  do  you  come  upon  these  nocturnes. 


36  THE  LONDON  SPY 

These  show  the  things  of  the  moment,  the  spirit  of 
the  times,  the  vexations  and  dismays,  the  patching 
and  changing  and  shifting.  The  enduring  things, 
the  steady,  soft-moving  life  of  London,  are  in  the 
background.  Down  the  side-streets — that's  where 
joy  lies.  That's  where  you  must  seek  her;  in  small 
taverns,  in  the  movie-houses,  in  the  recreation 
grounds,  in  the  little  local  clubs,  among  the  clerks, 
shop-assistants,  labourers,  charwomen — anybody,  in 
short,  who  works  hard  for  a  scanty  wage,  and  takes 
fun,  when  it  comes,  with  both  hands,  voraciously 
and  gleefully. 

Beauty  and  sweet  temper  live  in  these  side-streets, 
with  their  ardent  dark  and  meagre  light,  their 
flowing  murmur  of  voices.  Through  their  half- 
open  doors  or  unshaded  windows  the  passer  catches 
sudden  vignettes  of  tea-table  and  fire  and  strange 
figures.  We  see  them  as  figures  of  another  world, 
idly  busy  upon  their  various  occasions,  reading, 
sewing,  eating,  lounging,  posed  in  their  harmoni- 
ous setting  as  exquisitely  as  in  the  frozen  moment 
of  statuary.  I  have  known  these  byways  from 
earliest  childhood,  and  I  hold  them  closer  than 
any  of  the  grander  beauties  of  the  town.  I  think 
with  peculiar  affection  of  certain  side-streets  in 
Islington,  Bermondsey,  Paddington  and  Canning 
Town,  and  the  glamorous  interiors  that  have  held  me 
with  the  shock  of  sudden  poetry;  and  there's  a  street 
in  Stepney  that  I  have  named  The  Street  of  BeautI- 


IN  THE  THICK  OF  IT  37 

ful  Children.  But  of  that  I  will  tell  you  in  another 
chapter.  Through  and  through  these  streets  we 
went  noctambulating,  presented  at  every  turn  with 
warn  nooks,  robust  highways,  or  heartless  spaces  that 
filled  the  night  with  inuendoes  of  dread  or  romance; 
and  stumbling  here  and  there  upon  the  midnight 
lovers. 

Don't  we  all  know  them — those  midnight  lovers? 
Haven't  we  all,  at  sudden  corners,  blundered  upon 
them?  Nay,  we  who  have  been  boy  or  girl,  have  we 
not  all,  at  some  time  or  other,  made  one  with  that 
scattered  crowd  of  the  late  hours  that  stands  in  the 
sweet  security  of  two  in  dark  doorways  and  discreet 
alleys  where  the  lamplight  does  not  gloat;  saying 
good-night  until  to-morrow?  In  the  larger  hours  of 
the  city's  night,  in  all  such  retreats,  you  will  come 
upon  this  still,  rapt,  wordless  sacrament  of  first  love : 
the  flutter  of  a  white  frock  against  the  railings,  boy 
and  girl  in  shadow,  heart  to  heart,  careless  of  all  but 
their  own  ecstasy. 

For  the  streets  of  London  are,  for  the  poorer 
young  people,  what  the  drawing-room,  the  dance, 
the  conservatory,  the  quiet  garden,  and  the  taxi  are 
for  those  in  happier  circumstances.  Only  in  the 
misty  lost  corners  of  the  thickening  streets  can  they 
attain  the  solitude  they  seek.  For  them  there  is  no 
elsewhere.  Monitorial  Councils  drive  them  out  of 
the  parks  at  just  that  hour  when  a  seat  under  unsus- 
picious trees  is  most  desirable;  and  the  front  parlour 


38  THE  LONDON  SPY 

at  home  Is  too  public,  too  fraught  with  Interruptions 
and  restriction,  even  if  It  were  available.  Often  it 
is  not;  for  working-class  parents,  like  Councils,  have 
"views" — very  strict  "views" — about  boy-and-girl 
love.  In  many  homes  the  daughter  dare  not  ac- 
knowledge a  sweetheart  to  the  family  until  she  be 
turned  eighteen.  But  love  does  not  wait  upon  these 
arbitrary  distinctions :  It  awakens  when  It  will.  You 
may  forbid  and  forbid,  and  lecture  and  admonish, 
but  before  Dolly  is  out  of  the  school  playground 
she  has  her  boy;  and  this  way  or  that  they  will  meet; 
and  the  naughty  girl  will  stay  out  late,  even  If  she 
does  suffer  the  indignity  of  chastisement  from  father. 
Really,  there  should  be  some  sort  of  continuation 
classes  for  parents  to  help  them  to  remember  what 
they  so  quickly  forget  when  they  become  parents — 
their  own  youth. 

For  the  young  lover  then,  paradoxically,  the  street 
is  more  private  than  the  home.  Even  when  the  front 
parlour  is  conceded,  the  sense  of  complete  privacy  Is 
lacking;  the  neighbourhood  of  the  family  is  too  im- 
minent. But  the  stars,  the  dumb  walls,  the  pave- 
ments, and  the  rumour  of  near  traffic  and  crowd, 
enclose  them  In  greater  security  than  any  parlour 
can  afford;  and  In  the  hesitant  dusk  of  July,  the  keen 
glitter  of  Winter  or  the  rain-streaked  Autumn  nights, 
through  the  procession  of  seasons  and  weathers, 
they  snatch  their  hour  of  solitude,  posed  in  uncon- 
scious beauty.     During  the  evening  they  walk  here 


IN  THE  THICK  OF  IT  39 

and  there  about  the  less  hurried  streets  or  sit  in  the 
more  sequestered  seats  at  the  picture-palace;  but  in 
the  hour  of  parting  their  feet  are  still;  and  in  crepus- 
cular corners,  wherever  the  friendly  shadows  are  as- 
sembled, in  the  quiet  spots  of  Westminster  and  the 
Alleys  of  Shoreditch,  they  impede  your  passage,  lost 
in  silent  wonder  of  each  other's  magnificence,  forget- 
ful of  the  stress  of  the  great  chords  of  the  day  under 
the  grateful  movements  of  the  night.  But  they  are 
not  abashed  by  your  intrusion.  It  is  you  who  hurry  by 
with  averted  head,  though  your  embarrassment  is 
idle;  for  between  your  v/orld  and  theirs  float  the 
clouds  of  their  adolescent  rapture.  They  have  not 
seen  you  or  even  heard  your  step.  Nor  would  they 
care  if  they  had.  In  their  exquisite  moment,  with 
pulses  thrilling  each  to  each,  what  are  you  and  your 
pedestrian  occasions  to  them?  You  cannot  dismay 
them  or  lend  them  any  increase  of  bliss;  but,  if  your 
heart  be  not  wholly  wrapped  in  mundane  things,  they 
can  lend  you  at  least  an  echo  of  their  own  de- 
light. 

To  me,  these  lovers  are  one  of  the  chief  beauties 
of  London's  night.  To  be  abroad,  between  eleven 
o'clock  and  midnight,  in  the  great  highways,  and  to 
know  that  down  every  little  side-street,  stretching 
right  and  left  of  you,  boys  and  girls,  at  gates  and 
doorways,  are  making  their  long  good-nights,  Is  to 
suffer  as  sweet  a  thrill  as  that  which  possesses  them- 
selves. 


40  THE  LONDON  SPY 

This  open-secret,  byway  love-making  is,  perhaps, 
an  affair  peculiarly  English.  On  the  Continent, 
where  love-making  is  more  free,  more  public,  and 
celebrated  in  groups,  the  close  colloquies  of  the  back- 
streets  are  infrequent;  but  here,  in  the  big  cities,  and 
particularly  in  London,  where  young  love  is  pryed 
upon,  and  dogged  and  derided  and  hounded  by 
authority;  in  the  country,  too,  by  field-gates  and 
stiles,  young  England  lingers  and  lounges  in  crystal- 
lised solitude,  setting  its  happiness  like  pearls  against 
the  shell  of  forbiddance.  For  them,  each  night  is  a 
separate  and  single  casket,  loaded  with  the  unprofit- 
able gold  of  romance.  Life's  confines  are  broken 
down;  the  world  widens;  the  stars  thicken;  witchery 
Is  abroad.  Then  they  live  those  rich  moments  that 
come  at  times  to  all  of  us;  moments  when,  by  some 
fortuitous  agreement  of  place  and  time,  some  happy 
harmony  of  sky,  air,  place,  and  time,  the  accustomed 
things  are  translated  to  the  plane  of  dream  and  be- 
come as  a  stage  set  for  fantastic  adventure.  They 
are  the  moments  when  the  v/ings  of  Ariel  brush  our 
sorry  lives,  and  the  world  wakens  into  vivid  breath. 
Magic  hangs  on  every  step  and  for  that  brief  while, 
anything  may  happen;  all  things  are  possible.  We 
have  all  known  such  moments  and  hours;  they  come 
when  they  will,  often  in  incongruous  situations;  but 
to  young  love  they  come  at  every  meeting. 

For  many  lovers  her  gate  or  her  doorway  is  a 
spot  of  danger,  and  they  must  make  their  partings 


IN  THE  THICK  OF  IT  41 

In  more  distant  nooks.  Wherever  there  Is  a  square 
or  alley  or  remote  corner,  they  discover  It,  and  make 
It  the  scene  of  their  last  caresses;  and  most  couples 
have  a  special  corner  of  their  own.  It  may  be  where 
they  first  met,  or  where  they  first  kissed  or  had  their 
first  long  talk.  That  corner,  for  them,  becomes 
consecrated.  It  Is  no  common  street  or  square  or 
passage;  no  matter  of  brick  and  stone  and  paving, 
to  be  trodden  carelessly  as  they  tread  other  parts  of 
the  city;  but  a  little  street  of  love's  own  fashioning 
dropped  Into  London,  touched  with  fantasy,  coloured 
with  dream,  and  very  dear.  Even  when  young  love 
does  not  come  to  harvest;  when  one  or  other  goes 
gaily  after  fresh  faces,  never  again  Is  the  forsaken 
one  able  to  pass  that  corner  or  that  alley  with  level 
pulse  or  unconsidering  eye. 

And  every  street  In  London  is,  for  somebody,  such 
a  consecrated  spot.  In  every  district  which  holds 
sheltered  inlets,  pools  of  quiet  untroubled  by  the  tide 
of  traffic  and  the  confusion  of  men,  the  youth  of  the 
city  has  built  a  bower  of  memory.  These  spots  you 
may  locate  in  the  morning.  Clues  are  left  for  the 
observant,  and  the  chief  clue  is — hairpins.  On  this 
evidence  I  judge  the  Mall  to  be  the  favourite  spot 
for  dalliance,  for  often,  In  a  morning  walk  from  the 
Admiralty  Arch  to  Buckingham  Palace,  I  have  count- 
ed, under  the  trees,  over  a  hundred  hairpins,  not 
to  mention  some  half-dozen  scraps  of  ribbon;  relics 
of  the  abandon  of  the  night. 


42  THE  LONDON  SPY 

While  this  festival  of  good-nights  moves  through 
the  whole  year,  it  is  more  observed  in  the  Winter 
months.  This  is  not,  as  you  might  thinlc,  because 
the  light  evenings  withhold  the  wistful  quiet  and 
dusk  that  love  demands,  but  because,  as  I  think,  the 
Winter  is  love's  true  season.  That  is  not  truly 
said — tha^  in  the  Spring  a  young  man's  fancy  lightly 
turns  to  thoughts  of  love.  So  far  as  town  life  is  con- 
cerned, it  is  a  fallacy.  The  Spring  is  the  very  season 
when  the  thoughts  of  your  urban  youth  are  fixed 
otherwhere.  He  is  concerned  with  sterner  matters. 
He  is  called  by  cricket  and  tennis,  by  swimming,  by 
running,  and  other  Olympian  business.  His  mind  Is 
ever  occupied,  by  work  during  the  day,  and  by  games 
during  the  evening.  He  can't  be  bothered  with  love. 
But  in  the  Winter. 

Then,  time  hangs  heavily.  He  is  at  a  loose  end, 
and  his  fancy,  seeking  employment,  does  then  turn 
for  distraction  to  the  empire  of  girls.  In  the  glamour 
of  the  street  lights,  or  in  the  inviting  flicker  of  fire- 
light, he  bursts  into  recognition  of  Daisy's  nice  eyes 
or  the  jolly  curls  of  Joan,  or  the  wonderful  smile  of 
the  tea-shop  waitress.  Winter  inspires  an  appetite 
for  warmth  and  intimacy.  We  feel  a  need  for  im- 
mediate social  contract.  In  the  Summer  we  are 
separate  and  scattered;  we  wish  to  escape  direct 
neighbourhood,  and  loneliness  has  Its  charms.  But 
the  Winter  calls  us  in  to  the  camp  fires.  It  is  a  season 
of  drawing  together,  of  communion,  a  throw-back  to 


IN  THE  THICK  OF  IT  43 

the  cave  days,  when  men  gathered  together  for  mu- 
tual protection  through  the  long  darkness. 

In  this  season,  from  October  to  March,  the  lads 
and  lassies  seek  each  other;  and  in  the  squares  of 
Bloomsbury,  the  narrow  streets  of  Soho,  in  tenement 
doorways  of  Spitalfields,  and  Stepney,  in  the  courts 
and  passages  of  Shadwell  and  Wapping,  in  the  sunk- 
en, broken  streets  about  Bankside,  in  the  swimming 
light  of  the  Embankment  or  the  luminous  dark  of 
the  Mall,  the  couples  spend  their  midnight  minutes 
under  the  indifferent  stars.  Pass  through  any  square 
of  Bloomsbury  or  any  of  the  little  squares 
and  alleys  of  the  East  at  that  hour,  and  In  the  hush 
that  enfolds  these  retreats,  so  that  they  might  be 
hamlets  of  a  rural  valley,  you  will  be  conscious  of 
company.  And  though  you  see  nobody,  your  ears 
receive  fragile  murmurs,  and  sweet-ringing  laughter 
troubles  each  shadowy  corner.  Somewhere  beyond — 
it  may  be  miles — lies  the  city.  Notes  of  its  travail 
come  to  you.  Melancholy  motor-horns  hoot  across 
the  slumbering  houses.  Wheels  rumble.  Your  ears 
gather  the  desslcated  noises  of  the  night — the  lazy 
hum  of  many  active  voices.  But  here,  by  the  railings, 
or  In  the  quadrangle  of  the  tenement,  or  down  that 
court,  here  Is  rich  quiet,  made  richer  by  whisperings 
or  by  that  living  silence  of  young  lips  communing 
without  speech. 

It  is  a  consecration  of  the  night,  which  none  but 
devils  would  profane.     Unhappily,  there  are  many 


44  THE  LONDON  SPY 

devils  who  delight  in  this  blasphemy;  female  devils 
in  uniform,  who  make  a  quest  of  interrupting  this 
sacrament,  and  dropping  damp  paws  upon  the  pleas- 
ant heart  of  love,  and  whispering  suggestions  of 
obscenity  into  innocent  ears.  The  policewoman,  as 
well  as  the  young  lover,  has  discovered  the  shy 
corner,  and  hovers  about  it  on  silent  feet,  seeking 
dirt  where  none  is,  and  finding  it;  warning  decent 
girls  against  their  decent  lovers,  and  poisoning  early 
affection  with  physical  revelations.  Surely  so  sweet 
a  thing  as  this,  that  illumines  the  squalors  of  our 
streets  with  beauty,  should  be  regarded  only  with 
grace  and  understanding;  not  through  the  red-flannel 
murk  of  the  policewoman's  mind?  But  they 
will  not  hear  it.  They  greet  the  unseen  with 
a  sneer.  They  are  deaf  to  song  and  blind  to  the 
Spring;  and  for  love  they  have  nothing  but  a  formula 
of  the  consulting-room. 

But  sometimes  they  go  beyond  themselves,  and 
do  more  than  they  mean  to  do.  Take  the  case  of  the 
officious  policewoman,  who,  at  midnight,  descried 
two  figures  on  a  public  seat  in  a  quiet  side-road. 
They  sat  together,  with  arms  enlaced,  lip  to  lip. 
To  them,  heavily,  the  policewoman;  "Look  here, 
don't  you  think  it's  time  you  two  were  in  bed?" 

Well,  let  the  epicene  policewoman  pad  and  prowl, 
and  indulge  to  the  full  her  lust  of  Interferingness; 
glory  and  loveliness  have  not  yet  passed  away,  nor 
will  they  at  the  bidding  of  such  creatures.  To-night 


IN  THE  THICK  OF  IT  45 

and  every  night,  youth  will  love  and  laugh.  Law  and 
order  may  control  the  fools ;  they  will  never  control 
the  fairies. 

And  now  the  coffee-stalls  began  to  rumble  from 
obscure  hospices,  and  the  cheerful  glow  of  that 
which  pitches  beneath  Shoreditch  Church  attracted  us 
and  drew  from  all  corners  our  fellows,  wanderers  and 
borrowers  from  the  night.  Within  the  narrow  arc 
of  Its  light  gathered  workers,  Idlers,  vagrants,  and 
the  down-and-out,  elbow  to  elbow,  saucer  to  saucer, 
In  a  grand  but  transient  democracy;  all  silent  or 
exchanging  only  mumbles^  I  know  not  why  the 
coffee-stall  crowd  Is  always  silent,  why  the  movement 
is  so  slow;  the  unaccustomed  open-air  and  the  vast 
night,  I  suppose,  thwart  any  attempt  at  the  trivial 
and  the  chatty.  The  same  crowd  in  a  bar  or  a 
coffee-shop  would  talk;  but  always  at  the  stall  I 
have  found  the  customers  glum  and  reticent,  mum- 
bling only  of  necessity;  crushed,  as  I  say,  by  the 
solemnity  of  the  hour. 

But  there  is  one  coffee-stall  which  is  a  spectacle, 
and  about  which  are  swift  movement  and  clatter 
and  babble.  This  is  the  firemen's  coffee-stall,  which 
is  brought  out  on  the  occasion  of  a  big  fire,  when 
the  men  have  to  work  hours  at  a  stretch  without 
respite.  On  the  arrival  of  the  official  stall  they  drop 
out  by  ones  or  twos  and  grab  a  little  nourishment, 
and  then  back  to  the  hose  to  relieve  others.     No 


46  THE  LONDON  SPY 

lounging  or  mumbling  here,  but  brisk  business  all  the 
time,  with  bobbing  helmets,  quick  elbows,  soiled  uni- 
forms, sweat,  and  wet  smoky  faces. 

The  coffee  that  the  stalls  provide  is  hot,  but  one 
cannot  say  much  more  for  it.  It  is  scarcely  a  food 
or  a  stimulant,  and  when  we  had  finished  our  mug, 
I  bethought  me  of  a  snug  interior,  and  I  heard  the 
sizzle  of  eggs  and  bacon,  and  the  clamour  of  com- 
plaining voices;  and  I  spoke  my  thought  to  Monk. 
I  had  thought  of  an  all-night  buffet  near  King's 
Cross,  and  we  retired  from  the  spot-light  of  the  stall 
and  took  'bus  to  the  most  agreeable  of  all  suppers — 
supper  in  an  outdoor  buffet. 

There  Is  a  zest  to  this  meal  that  Is  absent  from 
others.  It  is  as  thrilling  as  those  midnight  feasts 
on  the  floor  of  the  dormitory  in  other  times.  There 
you  are,  seated  In  a  little  shed  In  the  middle  of  the 
road,  girdled  by  the  Immense  night ;  In  It,  yet  enclosed 
from  Its  surge.  Outside,  the  cars  hoot  and  voices 
wander.  Inside,  the  bacon  hisses  In  the  pan.  Out- 
side, cold  and  dark.  Inside,  light  and  warmth  and 
teasing  odours,  growling  voices,  comminations,  and 
tales  of  adventure.  Never  do  eggs-and-bacon  eat  so 
well  as  at  this  hour  and  In  these  surroundings.  Foods, 
like  people,  have  their  peculiar  and  proper  setting 
when  they  are  at  their  best.  Pomme  f rites  at  the 
Carlton  are  not  half  so  delicious  as  a  paper-full  of 
"chips"  eaten  under  the  moonlight.  (Note  for  Wal- 
ter Catlett — do  you  remember  the  "chips"  and  ham 


IN  THE  THICK  OF  IT  47 

sandwiches  which  we  ate  at  two-o'clock  In  the 
morning,  sitting  on  a  railing  In  Stratford  Broad- 
way?) 

While  Fred  "did"  our  bacon,  we  sat  among  the 
chauffeurs,  and  their  n-yah,  n-yah,  n-yahing  at  the 
world  and  the  times,  and  felt  like  Daniels,  For  we 
had  been  guilty  of  those  very  offences  upon  which 
they  were  now  growling  anathema. 

"Urr-quarter  to  twelve  and  wonnid  me  to  go  to 
Wimbledon.    'What's  It  worth?'  I  says." 

"An' woddldVsay?" 

"Said  'e'd  see  abaht  it." 

"See  abaht  it." 

"Ur." 

"And  woddid  you  do?" 

"Told  'im  where  'e  could  put  'Is  fare,  and  left 
'im  standing." 

"Bloody  well  think  so,  too."     And  again: 

"  'And  there's  tuppence  for  yesself,'  she  says. 
Tuppence !  on  a  seven-shilling  fare." 

"Wod  yeh  say  to  that?" 

"I  didn't  say  much.  But  I  just  give  'er  one  look 
what  she  won't  fergit  in  a  'urry,  an'  told  'er  to  put 
it  in  the  kids'  moneybox." 

"You  was  too  easy.  They  want  'andling,  them 
sort." 

"Ah,  but  y'never  know — with  a  woman.  'Special- 
ly that  kind,  what  knows  regulations  and  all." 

"Urr— the  bitches!" 


48  THE  LONDON  SPY 

The  bacon  Is  done,  and  Fred  serves  It.  Fred  Is 
a  real  dab  at  two  and  a  rasher,  but  he  mustn't  be 
tested  beyond  that.  Still,  what  more  do  you  want? 
All  artists  have  their  limitations;  versatility  is  only 
for  the  mediocre.  And  In  two  and  a  rasher  Fred 
expresses  himself.  He  has  a  view  of  life  tempered 
by  his  Immediate  environment  of  heavy  odours  and 
hot  air  and  rough  language  and  bustle. 

"What  you  want  In  this  life,  y'know,  me  boy, 
is  to  keep  yer  'ead.  That's  all.  Just  keep  yer  'ead, 
and  you'll  get  on.  Let  the  others  do  the  grousing — 
that's  the  secret.  Look  at  me — ain't  I  got  enough 
sometimes  to  send  a  fellow  batty.  But  look  at  me. 
/  never  worry."  Plop  goes  an  egg  to  the  floor. 
"That's  the  second  to-day — but  what's  the  good  of 
getting  fussed  up?  Take  life  easy — that's  my  mot- 
ter.  'Ere — your  doings  is  ready — give  us  up  yer 
plates."  Smack  goes  another  rasher,  pink  and  white 
and  crisp  and  curly. 

"But  wouldn't  a  little  method  make  all  the  differ- 
ence?"    I  asked  him. 

"Method?  Coo,  I  ain't  got  no  time  for  Method. 
Arst  the  boys  'ere  what  this  place'd  be  like  If  I 
run  It  on  Method.  Keep  yer  'ead  and  carry  on — 
that's  the  way  to  get  the  work  done." 

For  austerity  and  precision,  as  for  Method,  Fred 
has  no  time.  For  him  life  means  fullness,  amplitude, 
ready  companionship,  and  standing  the  racket,  a 
sort  of  fine  bright  formlessness;  In  short,  two  and 


IN  THE  THICK  OF  IT  49 

a  rasher.  To  see  him  with  a  frying-pan  in  each 
hand,  and  two  separate  and  intricate  conversations 
engaging  his  spare  attention  is  to  see  a  pretty  piece 
of  work.  I  have  never  seen  a  woman-cook  handle 
a  frying-pan  with  such  facility. 

And  now  the  boys — though  the  term  hardly 
fits  your  taxi-man — began  to  crowd  in  and  clamour; 
so,  warmed  and  fed,  I  telephoned  for  Parker,  and 
Parker  arrived  and  took  us  at  his  best  racing  speed 
to  our  beds. 

There  is  quite  delight  in  motoring  through  Lon- 
don at  midnight.  One  seems  to  flow  through  the 
untroubled  streets,  filled  with  pale  phantom  lines  of 
lamps,  and  only  the  humming  of  the  engine  to  dis- 
turb— no,  soothe,  the  large  tranquillity  of  the  city. 
The  cool  wind  beats  upon  your  face,  and  the  stars 
and  the  clouds,  in  the  subdued  light,  discover  them- 
selves. The  streets  of  toil  stand  shuttered  and 
dumb:  the  roads  lie  clear  before  you;  you  may 
speed  or  crawl  as  you  will.  The  city  sleeps.  You 
ride  alone  under  the  night,  amid  present  enterprise 
and  monuments  of  the  enterprise  of  years;  alone, 
but  with  a  pleasant  sense  of  the  neighbourhood  of 
Parker. 

Who  is  Parker?  Parker  is  the  World's  Best 
Chauffeur. 

There  are  those  who  possess  automobiles,  and 
those  who  are  possessed  by  them;  and  there  Is  my- 
self who  have  not  so  much  as  a  flivver  to  my  name. 


50  THE  LONDON  SPY 

I  cannot  afford  a  car,  but  I  command  ten  cars  and 
four  chauffeurs.  On  the  rare  occasions  when  I  re- 
quire to  travel  comfortably,  a  call  to  the  garage 
round  the  corner  gives  me  my  choice  of  these  cars 
and — Parker.  And  should  one  car,  on  the  road, 
forget  its  ofiice,  a  word  across  the  telephone  brings 
up  another.  There  I  score  over  the  car-owner;  but 
my  highest  score  against  him  is  with  Parker.  I  do 
not  have  to  tinker  with  the  thing;  I  do  not  have 
to  keep  my  eyes  and  nerves  taut  for  the  hazards  of 
the  road  and  warning  signs.  I  am  free  to  observe 
or  to  contemplate,  to  set  my  mind  roaming  where 
it  will,  thanks  to  Parker,  the  wizard,  whose  magic 
touch  on  his  mechanical  slave,  carries  me  across 
England. 

When  I  am  with  him  I  throw  aside  all  care,  and 
my  motto  for  the  day  is:  "Leave  it  to  Parker." 
He  has  not  the  haughtiness  and  severity  of  your 
private  chauffeur,  nor  the  broody  dolours  of  your 
taxi-man.  He  is  not  a  part  of  his  machine.  When 
cars  were  but  thought  of,  Parker  was  driving  a  pair- 
horse  brougham,  and  the  flexibility  and  fluent  tem- 
per required  by  that  job  remained  with  him.  He 
has  a  strong  air  of  past  times  about  him.  He  is  a 
rehabilitation  of  one  of  the  old  artists  of  the  whip. 
He  would  look  fit  in  a  five-caped  coat,  and  his  round 
red  face  was  made  for  a  low-crowned  beaver.  He 
would  be  in  his  place,  taking  the  Devonport  "Quick- 
silver" down  the  road;  and  "Nimrod"  would  have 


IN  THE  THICK  OF  IT  51 

delighted  to  sit  by  him  and  record  in  the  pages  of 
"Fraser's"  his  talk  and  his  mannerisms. 

It  is  a  pity  that  we  have  no  C.  J.  Apperley  with 
us  to-day,  to  mark  and  celebrate  the  pretty  styles 
of  our  best  chauffeurs,  (Here's  a  hint  for  John 
Prioleau).  Parker  deserves  such  notice.  Driving 
a  car  is  not,  with  him,  a  job.  It  is  his  daily  stimu- 
lant. He  misses  a  day  from  the  wheel  as  other 
men  miss  their  morning  drink  or  their  dinner.  He 
is  only  happy  on  his  car,  and  not  to  be  driving  is  a 
keen  punishment.  Each  morning  he  goes  to  the 
garage  with  a  fresh  delight,  as  if  motors  had  just 
been  invented,  and  each  night  he  puts  the  car  away 
regretfully.  Away  from  it,  he  is  lost,  unhappy. 
Keep  him  out  as  long  as  you  like,  and  he  never  com- 
plains. His  car  is  his  mistress,  and  she  seems  to 
return  his  caresses.  He  starts  her  up  with  a  throb 
of  joy.  He  leaps  to  her  and  he  settles  into  his  seat 
with  a  Wrrhmph!  of  content.  His  touch  is  soft 
and  soothing.  He  does  not,  like  your  taxi-driver, 
jam  his  brakes  on;  almost  one  might  say  he  strokes 
them  on,  so  light  is  the  contact  of  his  hand  with  the 
lever.  His  manner  at  the  steering-wheel  has  the 
finish  and  precision  of  Cinquevalli  or  Chaplin;  no- 
where too  light  or  too  stern.  And  his  back,  to  the 
passenger  inside,  is  not  the  sombre  mass  of  spleen 
that  your  taxi-man  presents,  but  a  big,  generous, 
equable  back,  able  and  willing  to  carry  all  the  bur- 
dens of  the  day;  a  round  affable  back,  that  looks 


52  THE  LONDON  SPY 

as  though  it  had  often  been  smacked  in  loud  good- 
fellowship.  I  wonder  what  would  happen  to  a  fare 
who  gave  a  taxi-driver  or  a  private  chauffeur  a 
friendly  smack  on  the  back;  summons  for  assault, 
I  expect. 

Parker  and  I  have  covered  many  hundred  miles 
of  English  road,  and  have  taken  long  tours  together. 
He  is  a  perfect  road-companion.  Nothing  disturbs 
him.  You  cannot  surprise  him,  and  he  will  never 
surprise  you.  He  is  ready  for  anything;  never  dis- 
mayed by  mischances  or  change  of  plan,  but  facing 
all  the  hazards  and  petty  emergencies  of  English 
travel  with  equanimity,  and  their  amenities  with  a 
round  noonday  smile.  If  you're  out  of  matches, 
Parker  has  plenty.  If  you're  short  of  cigarettes, 
Parker's  got  some.  If  you  want  a  postcard  and  a 
stamp,  Parker's  got  'em.  If  you've  got  a  headache, 
Parker  will  produce  menthol.  At  all  hours  of  the 
day  or  night — and  he  has  often  been  out  with  me 
all  night — he  is  the  same  blithe  soul :  a  good  Cock- 
ney, taking  his  banana,  in  the  most  tiresome  situa- 
tions, with  relish. 

Little  he  cares  if  it  snows.  Even  his  language, 
when  a  tyre  bursts,  is  not  bitter  and  explosive,  but 
full  and  round  and  copious,  flowing  steadily  like  an 
Arabic  imprecation.  We  have  heard  how  our  Army 
swore  terribly  in  Flanders,  and  I  think  it  must  have 
sworn  with  equal  vigour  in  Serbia;  for  Parker  spent 
the  five  years  of  the  war  driving  lorries  over  the 


IN  THE  THICK  OF  IT  53 

Serbian  mountains,  and  making  his  own  roads.  After 
that,  the  troublous  occasions  of  English  road-travel 
have  no  power  to  dishevel  his  philosophy;  and, 
though  he  speaks  to  a  burst  tyre  in  unforgettable 
accents,  whatever  gust  of  language  comes  from  him, 
comes  with  the  large  flavour  of  the  open-air  upon 
It.  It  is  without  malice.  I  have  been  with  him  In  the 
middle  of  the  Yorkshire  wold.  In  a  pouring  rain, 
with  a  disordered  magneto;  and  he  was  unmoved. 
He  did  but  look  upon  the  thing,  and  say,  In  con- 
versational tones,  beautiful  things  that  had  In  them 
the  warmth  of  the  sun  and  red  wine  and  the  south 
wind;  and  then  got  down  to  the  job,  remembering 
that  he  was  on  a  Yorkshire  wold  and  not  on  the 
Serbian  hills. 

Often  I  spend  a  loose  half-hour  In  his  garage. 
The  yard  Is  open  day  and  night,  and  wears  an 
atmosphere  of  Illimitable  travel.  To  the  fanciful 
the  mere  sight  of  the  garage,  with  Its  adumbrations 
of  adventure,  sets  the  heart  tingling.  Sitting  In 
Parker's  yard  I  am  In  the  midst  of  movement;  of 
stories  of  encounters,  of  Inns  and  old  towns  and 
long  roads;  of  the  going  and  returning  of  cars.  They 
could  tell  some  stories  of  their  clients,  Parker  and 
his  colleagues,  but,  unhappily,  they  don't.  They  are 
discreet.  They  hear  nothing  and  they  see  nothing 
of  their  clients'  affairs.  But,  In  the  lighted  evening, 
when  they  return  from  journeys  large  or  little,  the 
yard  Is  full  of  good  gossip  and  anecdotal  road-talk, 


54  THE  LONDON  SPY 

more  interesting,  to  me,  than  any  other  casual  talk; 
and,  listening,  one  may  compile  one's  own  Gary  or 
Paterson.  Some,  maybe,  are  returned  from  the 
North  or  the  West  Country,  and  some  from  station 
or  theatre  trips  to  town.  Then  Parker,  big  and  bluff 
and  Imperturbable,  comes  in  from  South  Wales, 
redolent  of  the  road;  and  sets  out  again,  to  take 
an  old  lady  on  a  half-mile  stage. 

There  is  a  pleasant  new-world  flavour  about  it. 
Until  ten  years  ago,  talk  of  the  delights  of  the  road 
meant  quotation  from  old  coaching  books.  One 
harked  back  to  the  'twenties.  Now,  they  are  present 
delights.  The  gusto  which  animated  the  road-chap- 
ters of  Dickens,  "NImrod,"  de  Quincey,  Disraeli 
and  BIrch-Reynardson,  plays  again  about  our  high- 
ways and  roadside  villages  and  Inns.  We  are  all 
in  this.  The  sharrabang  has  re-opened  the  road 
for  the  poorest  of  us,  and  we  can  all  catch  the  tang 
of  open-air  travel  and  the  ecstasy  of  speed,  which 
the  railway  cannot  lend  you.  Even  the  drivers  of 
the  motor-coaches  are  assuming  something  of  the 
box-seat  manner,  acquiring  something  of  Parker. 
Once  out  of  London,  they  give  hints  of  a  life  apart 
from  levers.  They  have  their  moods  of  levity.  They 
exchange  back-chat  with  the  guard.  The  old  road- 
spirit  seizes  them,  and  if  you  have  made  a  reading 
of  Outram  Tristram,  Charles  G.  Harper,  and  other 
road-historians,  and  follow  it  with  a  sharrabang 
trip,  you  will  find  that  only  the  vehicle  has  changed. 


IN  THE  THICK  OF  IT  55 

All  else  remains.  Passengers,  driver  and  guard  are 
wearing  different  clothes,  but  the  incidents  of  the 
trip  repeat  themselves  out  of  history.  Still  the 
village  worthies  come  to  their  doors  to  see  us  pass, 
and  the  children  to  wave  and  shout.  Still  the  driver 
and  guard  have  their  favourite  damsels,  whom  they 
salute  in  passing  with  elaborate  pantomime  that  per- 
mits no  misunderstanding.  Still  they  execute  com- 
missions in  town  for  the  remote  roadside  folk,  and 
drop  choice  packages  into  front  gardens,  or  carry 
the  evening  paper  from  the  nearest  town  and  toss 
It  to  Granfer  at  the  cross-roads. 

Perhaps  the  new-old  spirit  is  not  so  lively  in  the 
inns;  but  I  am  a  little  sceptical  of  some  of  those 
glowing  pictures  of  Mine  Hosts  and  their  impos- 
sibly hospitable  establishments.  Different  travellers 
record  different  impressions.  Dickens  himself  has 
given  us  descriptions  in  much  milder  mood  than 
those  of  "Pickwick."  Even  in  that  book  he  speaks 
out  at  times,  as  in  the  descriptions  of  the  "White 
Horse"  at  Ipswich,  a  true  picture,  I  imagine,  of  the 
average  coaching  inn  of  those  times.  Read  the 
essays  in  "The  Uncommercial  Traveller"  on  "Re- 
freshments for  Travellers,"  on  "Jairing's"  and  "The 
Old-Established  Bull's  Head,  with  its  old-established 
cookery,  and  its  old-established  frowziness,  and  its 
old-established  principles  of  plunder,"  and  the 
description  of  the  "Temeraire  Hotel"  in  "A  Little 
Dinner  in  an  Hour." 


56  THE  LONDON  SPY 

The  strictures  which  he  passes  on  the  inns  of 
his  time  are  sadly  true  to-day.  Seldom  do  you, 
travelling  life's  dull  round,  find  your  welcome  at 
an  inn.  In  many  parts,  If  you  travel  in  a  sharrabang, 
you  are  met  with  the  notice :  "Char-a-banc  Parties 
Not  Served." 

Still,  the  delight  of  the  road  mostly  tunes  us  to 
delight  in  everything.  We  are  in  a  state  to  be 
easily  pleased,  serenely  reconciled  to  discourtesy,  and 
finding  an  ill-cooked  meal  as  agreeable  and  stimulat- 
ing as  a  dinner  at  our  favourite  town  restaurant.  And 
when  I  am  out  with  Parker,  he  sees  to  It  that  I  am 
not  put  upon.  It  is  as  dangerous  to  be  funny  or 
brusque  with  Parker  as  to  monkey  with  a  safety- 
razor.  He  Is  a  member  of  the  A.  A.  and  the  M.  U. 
and  he  Is  not  standing  any  nonsense  from  inn-keepers 
who  fall  from  the  standards  demanded  by  those 
organisations  for  their  members.  Let  there  be  any 
over-charging  or  ill-service,  and  Parker  will  see  to 
it.  Parker  will  report  it.  Temperate  as  he  is,  he 
can,  for  the  occasion,  be  truculent;  and  he  has  a 
robust  figure  and  a  heavy  arm.  The  most  severe 
landlord  would  quail  before  his  "here — what's  this?" 
Simple  words,  but  they  can  carry  much.  With  him 
behind  you,  you  need  fear  not  the  heat  of  the  sun 
or  the  Winter's  furious  rages;  or  any  machinations 
of  the  wicked.  No  highwayman  would  have  held  up 
his  coach;  at  the  sudden  turn  of  the  head,  the  im- 
placable face,  and  the  "Hi — what  d'ye  think  you're 


IN  THE  THICK  OF  IT  57 

doing?  Want  me  to  set  about  you?"  Mr.  Turpin 
would  have  been  off  and  away.  And  had  I  been 
a  passenger,  and  a  pistol  had  been  thrust  through 
the  window,  I  would  have  dismissed  the  matter  with  : 
"Ask  Parker  about  it!" 

And  Parker  would  see  to  it,  as  he  sees  to  every- 
thing. He  drives  you  as  you  wish  to  be  driven. 
He  attends  to  your  comfort.  He  anticipates  your 
little  whims  and  remembers  your  habits.  He  is  a 
happy  companion,  as  I  know  from  evenings  we  have 
spent  together  when  on  a  tour;  and  while  you  are 
his  passenger,  he  is  your  friend,  counsellor,  and 
protector. 

And  so  home  and  to  bed. 


—II— 

IN  THE  STREETS  OF  FILM-LAND 

THE  film-world  of  London  begins  in  Soho,  over- 
flows into  Shaftesbury  Avenue  and  Gerrard 
Street,  and  stretches  to  the  suburbs,  where  studios 
are  established  at  Walthamstow,  Ealing,  Shepherd's 
Bush,  Twickenham,  Elstree,  and  Whetstone.  It  is  a 
queer  world  of  queer  people;  a  serious  world,  want- 
ing the  zest  and  camaraderie  of  the  stage-world  or 
the  quiet  zeal  of  the  business  w^orld.  It  is  a  bastard, 
parents  unknown.  Your  film-director  has  the  ap- 
pearance of  something  between  a  ring-master  and 
a  Junior  Whip,  and  the  business  and  executive  side 
of  the  industry  attracts  attention  by  its  facial  fea- 
tures and  its  Oriental  nomenclature.  But  these  are 
found  throughout  the  entertainment  world  and  in 
any  industry  whose  profits  turn  on  exploiting  the  idle 
hours  of  the  public.  Your  film-actor  is.  a  creature 
apart. 

He  has  little  in  common  with  the  stage-actor. 
He  is  not  gregarious.  His  speechless  work  has  left 
him  with  little  facility  for  chit-chat  and  none  for 
happy  talk.  Mostly  he  is  glum,  like  the  taxi-driver, 
the  lift-man,  and  others  who  work  with  mechanical 
things.     He  lives  in  an  atmosphere,  not  of  imagina- 

58 


IN  THE  STREETS  OF  FILM-LAND        59 

tlon  (that  quality  would  damn  his  chances  of  en- 
gagements), but  of  reality.  When  he  goes  out  to 
rescue  the  damsel  from  the  sinking  boat,  he  does 
rescue  her  from  a  real  sinking  boat  In  real  water; 
he  is  incapable  of  deluding  his  audience  with  simu- 
lated heroisms.  To  convince  an  audience  by  illusion 
demands  higher  qualities  than  he  possesses.  Rap- 
tures, fine  gestures,  sweeping  movements,  splendid 
outbursts  are  forbidden  him;  the  machine  has  no 
use  for  them.  Repression,  not  expression,  Is  the  note 
of  his  work,  and  every  movement  must  be  slow  and 
deliberate.  No  audience  Inspires  his  efforts  or  re- 
wards his  response  to  that  inspiration.  He  plays 
to  the  producer  and  the  machine.  His  world's  a 
shadow-show  played  In  a  box  under  white  lights, 
and  inspiration  may  not  enter  that  box.  He  has 
nothing  to  do  but  obey  the  producer;  his  not  to 
reason  why;  his  but  to  do  what  he's  told,  comforted 
by  knowing  that  every  effort  has  been  "thought  out," 
arrived  at,  without  his  help,  by  the  system  of  the 
cash-register.  And  as  he  Is  In  his  work,  so  he  is 
in  his  private  life,  considering  and  calculating;  a 
creature  of  languid  gesture  with  a  dull  light  to  the 
eye. 

Life,  for  him.  Is  no  hectic  kaleidoscope  of  work, 
crowds,  the  ascending  hosannas  of  the  multitude. 
He  is  never,  like  your  stage-actor,  who  works 
through  his  Imagination,  ablaze  with  personality. 
He  moves,  in  his  own  person,  through  greater  actual 


60  THE  LONDON  SPY 

trials  and  tribulations  than  any  actor  Is  called  upon 
to  simulate;  yet  always  he  Is  morose  and  low-splrlted. 
For   his   moving   accidents   are   Isolated    occasions, 
nicely  calculated.     His  work  Is  a  slow-moving  mat- 
ter, Involving  much  preparation  and  hanging  about, 
but,  If  done  once.  It  Is  done.     He  does  not  have  to 
work  himself  up  six  nights  a  week,  to  do  the  same 
old  thing  that  he  has  been  doing  for  three  hundred 
nights,  and  do  It  well.     Even  his  breathless  rescues 
from  cliff-faces  are  quieter  occasions  than  the  "big 
scene"   of  a  bedroom  comedy.     Truly,  his  profes- 
sional life  Is  as  flat  and  monotonous  as  the  life  of 
a  bank  clerk.    There  Is  no  excitement  in  carrying  the 
girl  from  the  burning  house.     No  acting,  no  per- 
sonal  Interest   are   required   for   these    "stunt-mer- 
chants."    You  have  only  to  perform  the  deed.  In 
the  right  clothes,   and  then  you're  finished.      The 
cheery,  chatty  crowd  at  a  theatrical  rehearsal,  ab- 
rupt, generous,  free,  is  the  precise  opposite  of  the 
film-studio  company,   which   has   somewhat  the   at- 
mosphere of  a  parish-hall  meeting  of  church-work- 
ers.    They  look  worried.     They  drift  from  instead 
of  to  their  fellows.     Your  actor's  instinct  is  to  get 
together;  your  filmist's   to  go  apart  Into   a  desert 
place.     Heartiness  and  Impulse  are  alien  virtues  to 
him. 

No  wonder  they  call  It  "the  silent  stage." 
When  Monk  and  I  were  invited  recently  by  the 
producer  of  a  prominent  London  film  company  to 


IN  THE  STREETS  OF  FILM-LAND        61 

spend  a  day  at  his  studio,  we  readily  accepted,  for 
we  wanted  to  see  something  of  the  marvellous  "in- 
side" processes  that  produced  this  queer  form  of 
entertainment.  We  both  love  to  see  the  wheels  go 
round.  We  arrived  at  Islington,  and  found  that 
the  "studio"  was  a  dismantled  power-station — a 
tremendous  barn  of  a  place,  which,  despite  the  warm 
day,  struck  coldly.  It  was  lofty  and  full  of  echoes, 
and  its  floor  was  littered  with  thick  lines  of  light- 
ing cables.  On  all  sides  were  little  islands  of  "sets," 
and  we  were  led  through  halls,  through  a  drawing- 
room,  through  a  dining-room,  through  the  fore- 
court of  a  country  mansion,  and  stumbled  over  cables 
and  against  the  million-candle-power  arc-lamp  be- 
fore we  found  our  producer,  with  a  shade  over  his 
eyes,  directing  his  people  in  a  bed-room  "set." 
Around  this  set  were  adjusted  a  number  of  iron 
frames,  each  holding  a  dozen  glass  cylinders  of 
blinding  white-green  light.  Over  it,  in  what  might 
be  the  flies,  were  the  great  arc-lamps.  Each  of  these 
contraptions  was  in  charge  of  a  youth,  and  these 
youths  were  controlled  by  a  chief,  who  gave  them 
their  orders  and  adjusted  the  apparatus  at  the  wish 
of  the  camera-man.    All  were  wearing  eye-shades. 

Outside  the  set  sat  those  actors  not  immediately 
concerned  but  ready  for  their  call,  dressed  and  made- 
up.  Immediately  in  front  of  the  set  was  the  slim 
movie-camera  and  the  camera-man,  and  near  him  the 
bulky  "still"  camera,  and  its  operator.    Also  in  front 


62  THE  LONDON  SPY 

sat  a  girl  with  a  scenario  before  her,  whose  business 
it  was  to  watch  the  dress  of  each  character.  Often 
two  consecutive  scenes  of  a  film-play  are  filmed 
months  apart  and  in  different  places,  and  this  girl 
must  note  the  dress  of  each  actor,  even  to  the  most 
minute  details;  so  that  a  character  shall  not  be  seen 
arriving  at  the  door  of  a  house  wearing  a  bow-tie 
and  immediately  entering  the  drawing-room  in  a  knot- 
tie.  Still,  with  the  keenest  eye  and  the  most  volumin- 
ous notes  to  assist,  these  things  do  happen,  and  the 
producer  is  blamed,  as  he  is  blamed  for  everything. 
Serves  him  right,  too,  for  taking  so  much  upon  his 
own  shoulders. 

We  didn't  discover  what  was  the  theme  of  the 
picture  they  were  making.  I  asked  one  of  the  actors, 
and  he  said  he  hadn't  been  told  yet  what  the  plot 
was :  he  only  knew  that  he  stole  some  valuable 
papers.  Monk,  who  had  at  once  turned  an  eye  to 
the  lovely  leading  woman,  approached  her,  but  she 
wasn't  quite  sure  about  it.  She  thought  it  was  taken 
from  some  popular  novel,  and  only  knew  that  she 
was  the  daughter  of  a  new-rich  man  who  was  getting 
into  society. 

I  had  expected  tumult  and  shouting,  hustle  and 
raucous  voices.  I  found  nothing  of  this.  The  busi- 
ness was  far,  far  less  vocal  and  gestic  than  a  Borough 
Council  meeting.  The  only  persistent  noise  was  the 
hiss  of  the  arc-lamps.  Through  that  came,  perfunc- 
torily,   the    quiet    voice    of    the    producer:    "We'll 


IN  THE  STREETS  OF  FILM-LAND        63 

just  have  that  over  again,  Miss  Gwyn.  Like  this, 
you  see."  He  entered  the  "set"  and  demonstrated, 
and  while  this  private  dancing-lesson  was  in  progress, 
the  rest  of  the  company  and  workers  gazed  about 
them  or  brooded.  Curious  terms  were  uttered — the 
jargon  of  the  studios:  "Cross  it;"  "kill  it,"  "Iris," 
"Hold  it."  The  faces  of  the  actors  outside  the 
arc-lamps  were  overlaid  with  powder  and  showed 
ghastly  yellow;  those  within  the  glare  looked  sea- 
sick.   Then  a  peremptory  voice  fell  from  above. 

"Light 'em  up!" 

With  a  click  of  levers  the  long  lights  of  the  great 
frames  went  up.  Then,  with  megaphone,  the  pro- 
ducer directed  the  shot,  in  a  slow,  conversational 
tone.     There  was  no  excitement,  no  harassing. 

"Camera  !  Come  on,  Butler.  Come  on,  detective. 
Come  on,  lady's  maid.  Agitated  coming  on  .  .  . 
Now  for  his  right  arm.  .  .  .  Knee  in  his 
back.  .  .  .  Down  him.  Struggle.  .  .  .  Fix  him. 
Fine !" 

He  clapped  his  hands.  The  camera  stopped.  The 
actors  scrambled  up  from  the  bedroom  floor.  The 
lost  voice  snapped  "lights  out!"  And  again  all  was 
silence.  The  producer  called  a  few  people  together, 
and  conferred  with  carpenter  and  electricians  and 
the  scenario-writer.  A  "still"  was  taken  of  a  dra- 
matic point  in  the  picture,  and  there  were  more  con- 
ferences. Large  notices  on  the  walls  prohibit  smok- 
ing, but  everybody  smoked.     Nothing  seemed  to  be 


64  THE  LONDON  SPY 

happening.  The  machinists  lounged  in  shirt-sleeves 
against  the  lamps.    Then  the  producer: 

"Crowd  for  Bow  Street,  please  !" 

The  crowd  came  forward  readily  and  amiably;  as 
though  long  familiar  with  Bow  Street  and  its  pro- 
cedure. The  producer  and  his  assistant  arranged 
them.  What  a  crowd!  Surely  the  highways  and 
hedges  had  been  raked  for  these,  for  they  were  not 
pretending  to  be  idlers,  loungers,  wastrels;  they  were 
what  they  looked.  "Types,"  said  the  producer. 
"Types.  That's  what  we  want  in  this  game.  Not 
the  suggested  character,  but  the  types.  Externals 
always.  We  don't  want  character-actors,  however 
perfect  they  may  be.  We  want  types  of  familiar 
character.  And  you  wouldn't  believe  how  difficult 
it  is  to  get  'em.  I  put  out  a  call  last  week  for  a 
private  detective.  Did  I  get  one?  No.  I  had  two 
hundred  apphcants — and  every  one  was  a  bloody 
actor!" 

The  crowd  got  into  place,  and  the  producer  moved 
among  them,  posing  and  miming  and  explaining. 
They  followed  his  movements  with  intent  eyes,  pel- 
manising  each  gesture,  and  practising  it  to  them- 
selves. The  big  frames  of  light  were  shifted  from 
position  to  position,  and  then  for  the  next  ten  minutes 
the  crowd  was  drilled  and  drilled  until  it  was  pro- 
ficient. They  were  not  drilled  by  the  method  of 
the  old-style  pantomime  producer,  with  his  oaths  and 
his  personal  affronts,  who  worked  off  his  own  temper 


IN  THE  STREETS  OF  FILM-LAND        65 

and  exacerbated  the  tempers  of  his  supers.  They 
were  coached  gently,  slowly  and  with  unfailing 
courtesy  and  patience;  and  the  helpless  dud  was  not 
summarily  dismissed.  He  was  politely  put  off.  "I 
think  Mr. — er — Jones  is  it?  I  think  I'll  ask  you 
to  stand  aside  for  awhile.  I  can  use  you  better  in 
the  garden  crowd." 

A  pleasant  spirit  prevailed;  subdued,  but  pleasant; 
and  It  was  most  prevalent  at  mid-day,  when  all  the 
workers,  like  freed  school  children,  trooped  upstairs 
to  the  restaurant  for  lunch.  All  lunched  together 
— producer,  principals  (in  their  yellow  make-up), 
electricians,  carpenters,  commissionaires,  porters, 
clerks;  and  there  was  no  line  of  demarcation.  The 
junior  electrician  sat  next  to  the  star,  and  the  com- 
missionaire next  the  producer.  No  one  of  them, 
alone,  could  ensure  the  success  of  the  film.  Actor 
or  actress  can  sometimes  "make"  a  play,  but  with 
the  film  It  is  entirely  a  matter  of  joint  effort,  and 
the  "star"  is  no  more  important  than  any  other. 
The  cinema  is  a  democratic  institution,  and  it  was 
pleasant  to  see  the  democratic  spirit  aliv^e  at  head- 
quarters. At  afternoon  tea,  which  was  served  down- 
stairs in  the  studio,  the  same  quiet  amenities  pre- 
vailed. There  was  no  bright  chatter:  it  was  not 
the  beanfeast  that  a  touring  company  of  actors  would 
have  made  it.  Seriousness  was  the  note,  but  It  was  a 
seriousness  which  all  shared.  The  subordinates — 
the  carpenters,  machinists,  and  boys — had  not  that 


66  THE  LONDON  SPY 

air  of  "When  the  hell  are  we  going  to  finish  and 
get  away?"  One  felt  that  they  were  intensely  inter- 
ested; intensely. 

It  seemed  a  pity  to  me,  though,  that  all  this  effort 
and  intensity  and  money  and  thought  should  be  given 
to  such  poor  material.  The  "artistes"  were  mere 
lay  figures,  using  neither  wit  nor  understanding,  but 
moving  to  the  order  of  the  producer.  And  every- 
thing in  this  studio  was  genuine.  In  the  film-studio 
they  have  no  time  for  the  creation  of  atmosphere 
by  illusion.  The  great  drama  may  be  performed  on 
a  blank  stage  with  a  back-cloth,  but  the  novelette  of 
the  film  cannot  exist  without  wild  changes  of  time 
and  place  and  the  trapping  of  exclamatory  externals. 
Not  the  fine  suggestion  of  reality,  but  the  raw  pic- 
ture of  reality  is  all  it  can  achieve.  (I  am  dreading 
every  day  a  "picture"  of  magic  casements  opening 
on  the  foam  of  perilous  seas  In  fairy  lands  forlorn). 
The  oak  panelling  In  the  dining-room  set  was  not 
carven  cardboard;  it  was  oak  panelling,  bought  at 
great  expense.  The  brick  fireplace  was  brick.  The 
books  in  the  book-cases  were  real  books.  The  jewels 
were  real  jewels.  The  silk  dresses  and  the  furs,  the 
old  tapestry,  the  Knellers  and  Lelys,  were  the  real 
thing,  hired  at  great  trouble.  Long  thought  and 
care  had  obviously  gone  to  the  making  of  this  ob- 
vious nonsense.  The  best  that  could  be  had  was 
gathered  for  the  production  of  the  utterly  unworthy. 
It  was  as  though  the  Medici  Society  were  to  produce 


IN  THE  STREETS  OF  FILM-LAND        67 

in  Riccardi  type,  on  real  vellum,  each  copy  signed 
by  authors  and  artists,  the  current  issues  of  "Comic 
Cuts"  and  "Forget-me-Not." 

Still,  the  film  is  with  us  and  the  cinema-palace  is 
with  us,  and  they  have  become  part  of  modern  life. 
The  cinema  palace  has  brightened  dull  suburbs,  both 
by  its  external  bridecake  appearance  and  its  func- 
tions, and  the  film  has  brought  a  flicker  of  outside 
life  into  desolate  villages.  It  has  rejoiced  us  with 
moving  processions  of  radiant  women  and  exquisite 
children.  Its  pictures  of  living  things  in  motion  are 
a  wonder  and  a  delight,  and  if  only  it  wouldn't  try 
to  tell  stories,  it  would  be  wholly  pleasant.  But 
with  all  its  faults,  it  has  filled  an  empty  patch  with 
brightness.  Think  of  the  wet  evenings,  before  the 
cinema  came,  when  we  couldn't  go  out  with  Dolly, 
or,  if  we  did,  had  to  stand  in  shelter  under  shop- 
awnings;  and  of  dreary  Sunday  nights  of  Winter, 
when  we  went  sadly  up  and  down  the  monkeys' 
parade.  Now,  a  wet  evening  never  disturbs  the  youth 
of  the  town.  In  he  goes  to  the  cinema,  for 
nine-penn'orth  of  cheer-up  and  a  little  canood- 
ling. 

But  it's  always  the  way.  Directly  things  are  made 
a  little  easier  for  youth,  along  come  the  hard-faced 
to  say  "You  shan't."  When  one  of  the  many  repres- 
sions and  restrictions  of  youth  is  lifted,  some  busy- 
body hears  about  it,  and  invents  another.  And  now 
there   are    actually   horrid   old  people   going   about 


68  THE  LONDON  SPY 

the  picture-palaces,  trying  to  order  managers  to  keep 
the  lights  up,  or,  if  that  be  impracticable,  to  em- 
ploy some  one  to  keep  an  eye  on  the  behaviour  of 
the  audience  In  the  cheaper  seats.  Damned  impertin- 
ence !  Happily,  it  is  ineffectual.  As  the  young  man 
of  good  family  said  to  the  magistrate,  when  fined 
and  seriously  admonished  for  untowardly  behaviour 
on  Hampstead  Heath — "Your  Worship,  you  can  talk 
and  talk,  and  legislate  and  legislate,  but  you'll  never 
make  loving  unpopular." 

The  cinema  is  at  once  a  refuge  and  a  playground, 
where  the  boys  and  the  girls,  despite  the  peepers, 
"get  off,"  more  quickly  and  more  comfortably  than 
in  the  High  Street.  During  the  Intervals,  when  the 
lights  are  up,  they  look  round,  and  meet  an  eye.  In- 
viting or  challenging;  and  when  the  lights  are  down 
again,  the  boy  changes  seats  and  draws  nearer,  and 
a  question  Is  hazarded. 

"D'you  like  Wallace  Reid?" 

"I  think  I  like  William  Hart  best.  I  like  men 
who  do  brave  things." 

"Seen  many  of  Lillian  Gish's  pictures?" 

"I  see  her  In  'Broken  Blossoms,'  but  I  didn't  like 
that.  Too  miserable,  I  thought.  I  don't  like  sad 
things.     D'you  come  to  the  pictures  much?" 

And  so  on.  Common  ground  is  discovered  In 
"Charlie,"  and  when  his  picture  comes  on,  a  hand 
roams  In  the  dark  and  finds  another  hand,  and  fingers 
tighten;  and  there  you  are  In  the  soft  primrose  mist, 


IN  THE  STREETS  OF  FILM-LAND        69 

with  bits  of  the  Fifth  Symphony  steahng  through, 
and  magic  cowboys  and  supernal  villains  and  hill- 
top heroines  casting  their  magnificent  shadows  on 
the  white  sheet  and — ooh,  let's  get  closer.  That's 
what  the  cinema  is  for;  that's  its  true  function — a 
club  for  young  lovers.  The  bright  youth  can  always 
find  company  in  the  cinema,  afternoon  and  evenings, 
though  the  afternoon  girls  are  of  a  different  class — 
high-school  and  apt  to  prove  expensive  in  the  matter 
of  chocolates. 

Then  there  are  the  lighting  and  the  music  of  the 
cinema.  With  lights  down  it  has  a  wonderful  colour 
and  appeal;  a  sort  of  luminous  shade,  through  which, 
from  the  front,  the  dusky  faces  of  the  audience  seem 
to  glow  palely.  Features  are  lost;  one  sees  only 
something  between  shape  and  shadow,  and  curling 
cigarette  smoke.  That  light  is  the  correct  light  for 
the  enjoyment  of  music.  It  rests  the  eye  and  refines 
the  ear,  and  I  wish  that  our  concert-artists  and  con- 
ductors would  adopt  it  for  their  recitals. 

Seen  at  close  quarters  the  faces  are  curiously  pla- 
cid and  empty.  I  cannot  define  the  state  of  mind  of 
the  cinema  audience ;  I  only  know  that  it  differs  widely 
from  the  state  of  mind  of  the  theatre  audience.  The 
theatre  audience  is  homogeneous;  it  is  gathered  in 
one  common  bond,  inspired  by  one  impulse — the  de- 
sire to  see  that  play.  The  cinema  audience  may 
have  gathered  from  many  mixed  motives.  It  may 
have  come  to   see   one  of  five  or  six  pictures — to 


70  THE  LONDON  SPY 

canoodle — to  go  to  sleep — to  take  shelter — or  to 
have  a  rest  between  shopping.  It  is  vague,  diffuse, 
without  common  contact.  It  Is  not  Indeed  an  audi- 
ence; It  Is  an  assembly  of  units,  each  separate  and 
enclosed  In  his  own  darkness,  and  though  each  unit 
is  moved  by  the  antics  of  Charlie,  there  Is  no  mass 
spirit  in  the  emotion  or  the  laughter.  It  is  not  the 
laughter  of  a  crowd,  but  some  hundreds  of  single 
laughs  bursting  out  of  dark  corners  and  knowing 
nothing  of  nor  sharing  the  neighbouring  laughs.  At 
a  theatre  strangers  laugh  towards  and  In  accord  with 
each  other;  but  the  laughter  of  the  cinema  is  mor- 
bid, secret;  the  damned  laughter  of  the  solitary.  As 
an  assembly  it  Is  complacent  and  Inert,  never  lit  by 
the  receptive  interest  of  the  theatre  audience;  and 
the  entertainment  provided  confirms  It  In  Its  compla- 
cence. Nothing  shocks;  everything  flows  smoothly 
towards  the  expected  end,  and  the  music  flows  with 
it,  and  the  young  hold  hands  and  the  elders  look 
bovine. 

It  Is  a  gathering  of  shadows  looking  upon 
shadows,  and  it  comes  to  life  only  when  it  steps  from 
the  twilight  drama  into  the  substantial  streets. 

•  •••••• 

And  yet  It  was  this  mechanical  process  that  pre- 
sented to  the  world  the  mercurial  personality  of 
Charles  Chaplin,  the  only  mime  that  It  has  yet  dis- 
covered; gave  him,  In  fact,  the  only  medium  through 


IN  THE  STREETS  OF  FILM-LAND        71 

which  he  could  express  himself.     I  wonder  if  I  can 
sketch  for  you  this  rare,  elusive  character.   .   .  . 

A  frail  figure,  slim  footed,  and  with  hands  as 
exquisite  as  the  hands  of  Madame  la  Marquise.  A 
mass  of  brindled  gray  hair  above  a  face  of  high 
colour  and  nervous  features.  In  conversation  the 
pale  hands  flash  and  flutter  and  the  eyes  twinkle; 
the  body  sways  and  swings,  and  the  head  darts  bird- 
like back  and  forth,  in  time  with  the  soft  chanting 
voice.  His  personality  is  as  volatile  as  the  lithe  and 
resilient  figure.  He  has  something  of  Hans  Ander- 
sen, of  Ariel,  freakish  and  elvish,  and  touched  with 
rumours  of  far-off  fairyland  tears.  But  something 
more  than  pathos  is  here.  Almost,  I  would  say,  he 
is  a  tragic  figure.  Through  the  international  agency 
of  the  cinematograph  he  has  achieved  world-fame  in 
larger  measure  than  any  man  of  recent  years,  and  he 
knows  the  weariness  and  emptiness  that  accompany 
excess.  He  is  the  playfellow  of  the  world,  and  he 
is  the  loneliest,  saddest  man  I  ever  knew. 

•  •••... 

When  I  first  heard  that  Charles  Spencer  Chaplin 
wished  to  meet  me,  I  was  only  mildly  responsive. 
But  I  was  assured  that  Charles  Chaplin  was  "dif- 
ferent," and  finally  a  rendezvous  was  made  at  a  flat 
in  Bloomsbury.  He  is  different.  I  was  immediately 
surprised  and  charmed.  A  certain  transient  glamour 
hung  about  this  young  man  to  whose  doings  the  front 
pages  of  the  big  newspapers  were  given,  and  for  a 


72  THE  LONDON  SPY 

sight  of  whom  people  of  all  classes  were  doing  vigil; 
but  discounting  that,  much  remained;  and  the  shy, 
quiet  figure  that  stepped  back  from  the  shadow  of 
the  window  was  no  mere  film  star,  but  a  character 
that  made  an  instant  appeal.  I  received  an  im- 
pression of  something  very  warm  and  bright  and 
vivid.  There  was  radiance,  but  it  was  the  radiance 
of  fluttering  firelight  rather  than  steady  sunlight. 
At  first  I  think  it  was  the  pathos  of  his  situation 
that  made  him  so  endearing,  for  he  was  even  then 
being  pursued  by  the  crowd,  and  had  taken  this  op- 
portunity to  get  away  for  a  quiet  walk  through  nar- 
row streets.  But  the  charm  remained,  and  remains 
still.  It  is  a  part  of  himself  that  flows  through  every 
movement  and  every  gesture.  He  inspires  imme- 
diately, not  admiration  or  respect,  but  affection; 
and  one  gives  it  impulsively. 

At  eleven  o'clock  that  night  I  took  him  alone  for 
a  six-hour  ramble  through  certain  districts  of  East 
London,  whose  dim  streets  made  an  apt  setting  for 
his  dark-flamed  personality.  I  walked  him  through 
byways  of  Hoxton,  Spitalfields,  Stepney,  Ratcliff, 
Shadwell,  Wapping,  Isle  of  Dogs;  and  as  we  walked 
he  opened  his  heart,  and  I  understood.  I,  too,  had 
spent  inhospitable  hours  of  youth  in  these  streets, 
and  knew  his  feeling  about  them,  and  could,  in  a 
minor  measure,  appreciate  what  he  felt  in  such  high 
degree  at  coming  back  to  them  with  his  treasure  of 
guerdons    and    fame.     The    disordered,    gipsy-like 


IN  THE  STREETS  OF  FILM-LAND        73 

beauty  of  this  part  of  London  moved  him  to  ecstasy 
after  so  many  years  of  the  angular,  gemlike  cities  of 
Western  America,  and  he  talked  freely  and  well 
about  it. 

At  two  o'clock  in  the  morning  we  rested  on  the 
kerb  of  an  alley-way  in  St.  George's  and  he  talked  of 
his  bitter  youth  and  his  loneliness  and  his  struggles, 
and  the  ultimate  bewildering  triumph.  Always,  from 
the  day  he  left  London,  he  had  at  the  back  of  his 
mind,  the  foolish  dream  of  a  triumphal  Dick  Whit- 
tington  return  to  the  city  whose  stones  were  once  so 
cold  to  him;  for  the  most  philosophic  temper,  the 
most  aloof  from  the  small  human  passions,  is  not 
wholly  free  from  that  attitude  of  "a  time  will  come 
when  you  shall  hear  me."  Like  all  men  who  are 
born  in  exile,  outside  the  gracious  inclosures  of  life, 
he  does  not  forget  those  early  years;  and  even  now 
that  he  has  made  that  return  it  does  not  quite  satisfy. 
How  should  it?  It  is  worth  having — that  hot  mo- 
ment when  the  scoffers  are  dumb  and  recognition  Is 
accorded;  the  moment  of  attainment;  but  a  tinge  of 
bitterness  must  always  accompany  it.  Chaplin  knew, 
as  all  who  have  risen  know,  that  the  very  people 
who  were  clamouring  and  beseeching  him  to  their 
tables  and  receptions  would  not  before  have  given 
him  a  considered  glance,  much  less  a  friendly  hand 
or  a  level  greeting.  They  wanted  to  see,  not  him, 
but  the  symbol  of  success — le  dernier  cri — and  he 
knew  it. 


74  THE  LONDON  SPY 

He  owes  little  enough  to  England.  To  him  it  was 
only  a  stony-hearted  step-mother — not  even  the  land 
of  his  birth.  Here,  as  he  told  me,  he  was  up  against 
that  social  barrier  that  so  impedes  advancement 
and  achievement — a  barrier  that  only  the  very  great 
or  the  very  cunning  can  cross.  America  freely  gave 
him  what  he  could  never  have  wrested  from  Eng- 
land— recognition  and  decent  society.  He  spoke  in 
chilly  tones  of  his  life  in  England  as  a  touring  vaude- 
ville artist.  Such  a  life  is  a  succession  of  squalor 
and  mean  things.  A  round  of  intolerable  struggles 
against  the  unendurable.  The  company  was  his  so- 
cial circle,  and  he  lived  and  moved  only  in  that  sterile 
circle.  Although  he  had  not  then  any  achievements 
to  his  credit,  he  had  the  potentialities.  Although 
he  was  then  a  youth  with  little  learning,  an  unde- 
veloped personality,  and  few  graces,  he  had  an  in- 
stinctive feeling  for  fine  things.  Although  he  had 
no  key  by  which  he  might  escape,  no  title  to  a  place 
among  the  fresh,  easy,  cultivated  minds  where  he  de- 
sired to  be,  he  knew  that  he  did  not  belong  in  the 
rude  station  of  life  in  which  he  was  placed.  Had 
he  remained  in  this  country,  he  would  have  remained 
in  that  station.  He  would  never  have  got  out.  But 
in  America  the  questions  are  "What  do  you  know?" 
and  "What  can  you  do?"  not,  "Where  do  you  come 
from?"  and  "Who  are  your  people?"  "Are  you 
public  school?" 

To-day  England  is  ready  to  give  all  that  it  for- 


IN  THE  STREETS  OF  FILM-LAND        75 

merly  denied  him.  All  doors  are  open  to  him,  and 
he  is  beckoned  here  and  there  by  social  leaders. 
But  he  does  not  want  them.  Well  might  he  and 
others  who  have  succeeded  after  lean  years  employ 
to  these  lion-hunters  the  terms  of  a  famous  letter: 
"The  notice  which  you  have  been  pleased  to  take  of 
my  labours,  had  it  been  early  had  been  kind;  but  It 
has  been  delayed  till  I  am  Indifferent  and  cannot 
enjoy  it  .  .  .  till  I  am  known  and  do  not  want  It." 
But  twice  during  our  ramble — once  In  Mile  End 
Road  and  once  in  Hoxton — he  was  recognised,  and 
the  midnight  crowd  gathered  and  surrounded  him. 
There,  It  was  the  real  thing — not  the  vulgar  desire 
of  the  hostess  to  feed  the  latest  lion,  but  a  burst  of 
hearty  affection,  a  welcome  to  an  old  friend.  He 
has  played  himself  into  the  hearts  of  the  simple 
people,  and  they  love  him.  The  film  "Charlie"  Is  a 
figure  that  they  understand,  for  It  Is  a  type  of 
thwarted  ambitions,  of  futile  strivings  and  forlorn 
makeshifts  for  better  things.  As  I  watched  the  frail 
figure  struggling  against  this  burst  of  enthusiasm, 
In  which  voices  hot  with  emotion,  voices  of  men  and 
women,  cried  boisterous  messages  of  good  will  to 
"our  Charlie,"  I  was  foolishly  moved.  No  Prime 
Minister  could  have  so  fired  a  crowd.  No  Prince 
of  the  House  of  Windsor  could  have  commanded 
that  wave  of  sheer  delight.  He  might  have  had  the 
crowd  and  the  noise,  but  not  the  rich  surge  of  af- 
fection.    A  prince  is  only  a  spectacle,  a  symbol  of 


76  THE  LONDON  SPY 

nationhood,  but  this  was  a  known  friend,  one  of 
themselves,  and  they  treated  him  so.  It  was  no  mere 
instinct  of  the  mob.  They  did  not  gather  to  stare 
at  him.  Each  member  of  that  crowd  wanted  pri- 
vately to  touch  him,  to  enfold  him,  to  thank  him  for 
cheering  them  up.  And  they  could  do  so  without 
reservation  or  compunction,  for  they  could  not  have 
helped  him  in  his  early  years — they  were  without 
the  power.  I  do  not  attempt  to  explain  why  this 
one  man,  of  all  other  "comics"  of  stage  and  film  has 
so  touched  the  hearts  of  adulation.  It  is  beyond  me. 
I  could  only  stand  and  envy  the  man  who  had  done 
it. 

Yet  he  found  little  delight  in  it.  Rather,  he  was 
bewildered.  I  think  his  success  staggers  or  frightens 
him.  Where  another  might  be  spoiled  he  is  dazed. 
The  "Charlie,"  the  figure  of  fun  that  he  created  in  a 
casual  moment,  has  grown  upon  him  like  a  Franken- 
stein monster.  It  and  its  world-wide  popularity  have 
become  a  burden  to  him.  That  it  has  not  wholly 
crushed  him,  ejected  his  true  self  and  taken  posses- 
sion of  him,  is  proof  of  a  strong  character.  Your 
ordinary  actor  is  always  an  actor  "on"  and  "off." 
But  as  I  walked  and  talked  with  Chaplin  I  found  my- 
self trying  vainly  to  connect  him,  by  some  gesture 
or  attitude,  with  the  world-famous  "Charlie." 
There  was  no  trace  of  it.  When,  a  little  later,  I  saw 
one  of  his  films,  I  again  tried  to  see  through  the 
makeup  the  Chaphn  I  had  met,  and  again  I  failed. 


IN  THE  STREETS  OF  FILM-LAND        77 

The  down  of  the  films  is  purely  a  studio  creature, 
having  little  in  common  with  its  creator;  for  Chaplin 
is  not  a  funny  man.  He  is  a  great  actor  of  comic 
parts.  Every  second  of  his  pictures  is  acted,  and 
when  he  is  not  acting,  he  casts  off  "Charlie,"  drops 
the  mask  of  the  world's  fool,  and  his  queer,  glamor- 
ous personality  is  released  again. 

He  described  to  me  the  first  conception  of  his 
figure  of  fun — the  poor  fool,  of  forlorn  attitudes, 
who  would  be  a  gentleman,  and  never  can;  who 
would  do  fine  and  beautiful  things,  and  always  does 
them  in  the  wrong  way  and  earns  kicks  in  place  of 
acceptance  and  approval.  At  every  turn  the  world 
beats  him,  and  because  he  cannot  fight  it  he  puts  his 
thumb  to  his  nose.  He  rescues  fair  damsels,  and 
finds  that  they  are  not  fair.  He  departs  on  great 
enterprises  that  crumble  to  rubbish  at  his  first  touch. 
He  builds  castles  in  the  air,  and  they  fall  and  crush 
him.  He  picks  up  diamonds,  and  they  turn  to  broken 
glass  and  cut  his  fingers;  and  at  the  world's  disdain 
he  shrugs  his  shoulders  and  answers  its  scorn  with 
rude  jests  and  extravagant  antics.  He  is  sometimes 
an  ignoble  Don  Quixote,  sometimes  a  gallant  Pistol, 
and  in  other  aspects  a  sort  of  battered  Pierrot,  with 
a  mordant  dash  of  the  satyr.  All  other  figures  of 
fun  in  literature  and  drama  have  associates  or  foils. 
"Charlie,"  in  all  his  escapades,  is  alone.  He  is  the 
outcast,  the  exile,  sometimes  getting  a  foot  within  the 
gates,    but    ultimately    being    driven    out,    hopping 


78  THE  LONDON  SPY 

lamely,  with  ill-timed  nonchalance,  on  the  damaged 
foot.  He  throws  a  custard  pie  in  the  world's  face 
as  a  gesture  of  protest.  He  kicks  policemen  lest 
himself  be  kicked.  There  is  no  exuberance  in  the 
kick;  it  is  no  outburst  of  vitality.  It  is  deliberate 
and  considered.  Behind  every  farcical  gesture  is  a 
deadly  intent.  Never  do  the  eyes,  in  his  most  strenu- 
ous battles  with  authority,  lose  their  deep-sunken 
haunting  grief.  Always  he  is  the  unsatisfied,  venting 
his  chagrin  in  a  heart-broken  levity  of  quips  and 
capers.  Chaplin  realised  that  there  is  nothing  more 
generally  funny  than  the  solemn  clown,  and  in 
"Charlie"  he  accidentally  made  a  world-fool; 
though,  I  think,  certain  memories  of  early  youth 
went  to  its  making. 

But  I  am  more  interested  in  the  man  than  his 
work.  When,  at  four  o'clock  in  the  morning,  he 
came  home  with  me  to  Highgate  and  sat  round  the 
fire,  I  felt  still  more  warmly  his  charm  and  still  more 
sharply  his  essential  discontent.  I  do  not  mean  that 
he  is  miserable — he  is  indeed  one  of  the  merriest  of 
companions;  but  he  is  burdened  with  a  deep-rooted 
disquiet.  He  is  the  shadow-friend  of  millions 
throughout  the  world,  and  he  is  lonely.  He  is  tired, 
too,  and  worn,  this  young  man  whose  name  and 
face  are  known  in  every  habitable  part  of  the  world. 
It  is  not  a  temporary  fatigue,  as  of  a  man  who  is 
overworking  or  running  at  too  high  a  pitch.  His 
weariness,  I  think,  lies  deeper.     It  is  of  the  spirit. 


IN  THE  STREETS  OF  FILM-LAND        79 

To  the  quick  melancholy  of  the  Latins — for  he  is 
Anglo-French,  and  was  born  at  Fontainebleau — is 
added  that  unrest  which  men  miscall  the  artistic  tem- 
perament. But  even  without  these  he  could  not,  I 
think,  command  happiness.  He  is  still  an  exile,  seek- 
ing for  something  that  the  world  cannot  give  him.  It 
has  given  him  much — great  abilities,  fame,  fortune, 
applause;  yet  it  has  given  him,  for  his  needs,  little. 
The  irony  that  pursues  genius  has  not  let  him  escape. 
He  is  hungry  for  affection  and  friendship,  and  he 
cannot  hold  them.  With  the  very  charm  that  draws 
would-be  friends  towards  him  goes  a  perverse  trick 
of  repulsing  them.  He  desires  friendship,  yet  has 
not  the  capacity  for  it.  "I  am  egocentric,"  he  con- 
fessed. To  children  everywhere  his  name  brings 
gurgles  of  delight;  and  children  embarrass  him.  He 
has  added  one  more  to  the  great  gallery  of  comic 
figures — Falstaff,  Pickwick,  Don  Quixote,  Uncle 
Toby,  Micawber,  Touchstone,  Tartarin,  Punchinello 
— and  he  hates  "Charlie." 

He  sat  by  the  fire,  curled  up  in  a  corner  of  a  deep 
armchair  like  a  tired  child,  eating  shortbread  and 
drinking  wine  and  talking,  talking,  flashing  from 
theme  to  theme  with  the  disconcerting  leaps  of  the 
cinematograph.  He  talked  of  the  state  of  Europe, 
of  relativity,  of  Benedetto  Croce,  of  the  possibility 
of  a  British  Labour  Government,  of  the  fluidity  of 
American  social  life,  and  he  returned  again  and  again 
to  the  subject  of  England.     "It  stifles  me,"  he  said- 


80  THE  LONDON  SPY 

"I'm  afraid  of  it — it's  all  so  set  and  solid  and  ar- 
ranged. Groups  and  classes.  If  I  stayed  here,  I 
know  I  should  go  back  to  what  I  was.  They  told 
me  that  the  war  had  changed  England — had  washed 
out  boundaries  and  dividing  lines.  It  hasn't.  It's 
left  you  even  more  class-conscious  than  before.  The 
country's  still  a  mass  of  little  regiments,  each  moving 
to  its  own  rules.  You've  still  the  County  People, 
the  'Varsity  sets,  the  military  caste — the  Governing 
Classes,  and  the  Working  Classes.  Even  your  sports 
are  still  divided.  For  one  set,  there  are  hunting, 
racing,  yachting,  polo,  shooting,  golf,  tennis;  and  for 
the  other  cricket,  football  and  betting.  In  America 
life  is  freer.  There  you  can  make  your  own  life  and 
find  your  own  place  among  the  people  who  interest 
you." 

And  Chaplin  has  surrounded  himself  with  quiet, 
pleasant  people.  Not  his  those  monstrous  antics  of 
the  young  men  and  women  whose  empty  heads  have 
been  shaken  by  wealth  and  mob  worship.  He  is  not 
one  of  the  cafe-hotel-evening-party  crowd.  When 
the  "shop"  is  shut,  he  gets  well  away  from  it  and 
from  the  gum-chewing  crowd  to  whom  life  is  a  piece 
of  film  and  its  prizes  Great  Possessions.  You  must 
see  him  as  an  unpretentious  man,  spending  his  eve- 
nings at  home  with  a  few  friends  and  books  and 
music.  He  is  deeply  read  in  philosophy,  social  his- 
tory, and  economics.  His  wants  are  simple,  and, 
although  he  has  a  vast  income,  he  lives  on  but  a 


IN  THE  STREETS  OF  FILM-LAND        81 

portion  of  it  and  shares  everything  with  his  brother 
Syd  Chaplin.  During  the  day  he  works,  and  works 
furiously,  as  a  man  works  when  seeking  distraction 
or  respite  from  his  troubled  inner  self.  What  he 
will  do  next  I  do  not  know.  He  seems  to  be  a  man 
without  aim  or  hope.  What  it  is  he  wants,  what  he 
is  seeking,  to  ensure  a  little  heart's  ease  I  do  not 
know.  1  don't  think  he  knows  himself.  This  young 
man  worked  for  an  end,  and  in  a  few  years  he 
achieved  it,  and  the  world  now  stretches  emptily  be- 
fore him. 

I  have  here  tried  to  present  some  picture  of  this 
strange,  self-contradictory  character;  but  it  is  a 
mere  random  sketch  in  outline,  and  gives  nothing  of 
the  glittering,  clustering  light  and  shade  of  the  origi- 
nal. You  cannot  pin  him  to  paper.  Even  were  he 
obscure,  a  mere  nobody,  without  the  imposed  colour- 
ing of  "Charlie"  and  world  popularity,  he  would 
be  a  notable  subject,  for  he  has  that  wonderful,  im- 
palpable gift  of  attraction  which  is  the  greater  part 
of  Mr.  Lloyd  George's  power.  You  feel  his  pres- 
ence in  a  room,  and  are  conscious  of  something  want- 
ing when  he  departs.  He  has  the  rich-hued  quality 
of  Alvan  in  "The  Tragic  Comedians."  You  feel 
that  he  is  capable  of  anything.  And  when  you  con- 
nect him  with  "Charhe"  the  puzzle  grows  and  you 
give  it  up.  The  ambition  that  served  and  guided 
him  for  ten  years  is  satisfied;  but  he  is  still  unsatis- 


82  THE  LONDON  SPY 

fied.  The  world  has  discovered  him,  but  he  has  not 
yet  found  himself.  But  he  has  discovered  the  weari- 
ness of  repeated  emotion,  and  he  is  a  man  who  lives 
on  and  by  his  emotions. 


— Ill— 

IN  THE  STREETS  OF  RICH  MEN 


B 


LIMEY!"  said  the  Duchess,  "this  asparagus 
is  all  right." 

Years  ago,  when  I  first  heard  of  this  opening  of 
a  realistic  society  serial,  I  followed  the  custom  of 
royalty  and  "laughed  heartily."  But  now  it  isn't  so 
funny;  the  incongruity  isn't  so  marked.  Since  then 
I  have  heard  a  Duchess  swear,  and  have  met  a  Duke 
whose  table  manners  were  really  odious.  Yes,  I 
have  moved  a  little  in  the  streets  of  rich  men,  among 
the  demirepingtons;  but  I  was  always  glad  to  get 
out  again,  back  to  nature. 

Mayfair  and  St,  James  are  a  little  depressing  to 
the  sanguine.  They  hav^e  nothing  to  say,  and  they 
don't  say  it.  They  don't  have  to  say  it.  There  they 
are,  aloof  and  self-sufficient;  there  is  nothing  to  be 
said;  and  their  most  emphatic  gesture  is  a  languid 
glance  backward  at  history  and  tradition.  Pall  Mall, 
I  think,  is  the  saddest  street  in  London.  It  has  noth- 
ing to  break  its  grievous  monotony.  It  is  the  street 
of  old  men — distant  In  every  sense  from  the  street 
of  beautiful  children.  It  is  worn  and  grey.  It  is 
sober  and  severe.  Its  face  is  set  in  heavy  lines,  and 
its  mood  is  set.     It  is  the  England  that  makes  laws 

83 


84  THE  LONDON  SPY 

and  makes  wars;  the  England  that  fears  Bolshevism; 
the  England  that  writes  to  the  Times;  recreant,  for- 
bidding England,  glowering  at  youth  and  the  new 
spirit  and  the  new  system.  There  is  nothing  meaner 
than  the  charity  of  these  people;  nothing  poorer  than 
their  riches;  nothing  sadder  than  their  rejoicings. 

Why  the  rich  Englishman,  the  most  unclubbable 
of  men,  joins  a  club,  I  don't  know.  But  his  clubs 
reflect  his  spirit  very  clearly.  They  partake  of  the 
atmosphere  of  the  church  vestry  and  the  public  li- 
brary and  the  railway  waiting-room.  Men  sit  about, 
not  comfortably,  but  as  men  sit  when  waiting  for 
some  occasion — the  arrival  of  a  train  or  the  entry  of 
the  Chairman.  They  look  as  though  they  would  be 
glad  if  something  happened — anything — so  long  as 
it  eased  the  tension.  They  H'm  and  they  G'nrr,  and 
they  nod  to  one  another;  and  they  move  with  serious 
mien  and  obviously  first-class  carriage.  I  have  not 
often  seen  an  Englishman  bored  in  his  own  home; 
but  every  Englishman  in  a  club  has  an  air  of  bore- 
dom at  brcakingpolnt. 

Yet,  even  In  this  street  of  the  sedate  mood,  I  have 
had  adventures.  Even  the  clubs  of  rich  men  some- 
times throw  up  the  quaint  occasion.  .  .  . 

The  only  man  I  know  who  belongs  to  a  West  End 
Club  asked  me  the  other  night  If  I  would  dine  with 
him  at  the  Athenaeum  upon  a  certain  evening.  I 
said  I  would,  and  to  the  Athenaeum  I  went,  a  little 


IN  THE  STREETS  OF  RICH  MEN         85 

abashed  and  a  little  fluttered  at  the  prospect  of  sit- 
ting as  a  guest  in  that  august  institution. 

Its  cloistral  calm  is  one  of  the  beauties  of  London. 
As  I  stood  in  its  great  hall,  after  giv'ing  my  name  to 
a  retainer  of  the  nobility,  I  felt  a  little  depressed 
and  conscious  of  my  shapeless  clothes.  I  noticed 
other  shabby  and  down-at-heel  fellows  moving  about 
the  hall — members  of  the  staff,  I  supposed.  Through 
a  glass  door  I  perceived  many  gleaming  heads  bowed 
over  newspapers  and  reviews.  Very  noble  they 
looked,  very  grave,  very  rich  In  the  spirit  of  Debrett 
and  of  mellow  English  landscapes.  And  then  the 
old  retainer  stopped  one  of  the  unkempt  figures  in 
the  hall  and  addressed  him  as  Sir  Charles;  and  then 
I  was  shown  Into  the  smoking  room;  and  I  saw  with 
something  of  relief  that  all  Its  occupants  were  as 
shabby  as  myself.  I  don't  know  why  this  relaxed 
my  feelings,  but  it  did.  I  felt  I  could  talk  to  any  of 
them.  Some  of  them  I  recognised  from  published 
portraits — a  playwright,  a  critic,  a  scientist,  a 
philosopher — just  ordinary  people.  And  when  I 
had  been  among  them  some  few  minutes  I  recognised 
how  well  their  shabbiness  suited  both  themselves  and 
the  spirit  of  the  club.  Its  atmosphere  Is  a  sort  of 
animated  hush,  and  that  seemed  to  be  the  note  of 
the  company.  Although  the  architectural  scheme  of 
the  hall  Is  a  little  ornate,  the  place  itself  Is  governed 
by  a  stately  simplicity.  Its  dining-room  Is  simple, 
and  Its  kitchen  makes  no  attempt  at  attracting  re- 


86  THE  LONDON  SPY 

mark  to  itself.  Fearful  as  I  was  at  my  first  visit  to 
the  Athenaeum,  I  feel  now,  after  several  visits,  that 
it  is  the  most  serene  and  easy  club  in  London,  where 
the  most  diffident  creature  may  be  at  home. 

But  how  different  the  club  to  which  my  friend  now 
conducted  me !  Melbourne  Inman,  he  said,  was  giv- 
ing a  display  at  his  "other"  club,  and  we  would  go 
there.  His  other  club  was  the  Marlborough,  and  In 
ten  minutes,  I  found  myself  among  a  group  of  ex- 
quisites in  full  evening  toilet,  all  alert,  calm  and 
clean,  standing  or  pacing  in  graceful  but  ready  at- 
tendance upon  the  dinner-gong.  The  Marlborough 
Is  a  small  club,  founded  by  Edward  VIL  Its 
apartments  are  such  as  Its  members  would  have  in 
their  own  homes.  There  Is  nothing  obtrusive  and 
nothing  wanting.  But  the  "note"  is  richer  and  deeper 
than  the  note  of  the  Athenaeum;  more  set;  more  of 
the  solid  rich  earth  of  the  English  shires  than  of  the 
fluency  of  speculative  thought.  Its  atmosphere  Is 
suave  and  steady,  and  never  wind  blows  loudly.  In 
this  domain  it  is  always  afternoon.  Earls  and 
Barons  paced  around  me.  They  lounged  or  pot- 
tered. Oh,  beautifully  they  lounged!  Decidedly  I 
was  among  the  People  and  the  Accent.  How  ele- 
gantly they  carried  their  clothes  I  How  beautifully 
their  beautiful  manner  wasn't  apparent.  How  per- 
fectly their  shirt-fronts  rested  upon  their  noble 
chests,  and  their  coats  upon  their  shoulders:  none 
of  those  little  gaps  or  sticking-out  bits  that  you  and 


IN  THE  STREETS  OF  RICH  MEN         87 

I  experience.  How  courtler-like  were  these  mem- 
bers of  the  Court's  Own  Club — so  that  you  could 
never  have  placed  them  as  courtiers  or  as  anything 
but  Idle  gentlemen.  I  had  expected  to  find  them 
"talking  passionately  about  the  laws  in  a  low  under- 
tone," but  the  talk  I  heard  was  the  talk  you  may 
hear  In  any  suburban  railway  carriage.  They  bar- 
tered with  one  another  inane  quotations  from  the 
newspapers.    They — 

Then  I  knew  something  had  happened.  There 
was  a  stir,  a  breath,  as  it  were,  sweeping  slowly 
through  the  untroubled  air  of  that  room;  a  freshen- 
ing of  the  atmosphere  as  though  a  window  had  been 
opened  In  a  parlour. 

Melbourne  Inman  had  arrived.  .  .  . 

A  personality  had  entered,  and  had  blotted  out 
the  exquisite  negllglbles;  and  its  vibrations  went 
through  and  through  the  Marlborough  Club.  From 
Earls  and  Barons  and  Viscounts,  and  the  fine  flower 
of  our  English  fields,  he  stood  out;  a  piece  of  be- 
haviour of  which  no  courtier  would  be  guilty.  But 
he  didn't  mean  to  do  it,  I'm  sure.  He  looked  flushed 
and  flurried.  He  walked  with  ungainly  steps.  He 
didn't  seem  quite  comfortable  In  this  galley.  He 
looked  as  uncomfortable  as  I  felt  I  looked,  and  I 
sent  him  a  thought-wave  of  sympathy  at  finding  an- 
other soul  not  at  ease  in  this  temple  of  Zion.  But 
perhaps  he  wasn't  uncomfortable;  he  must  be  used 
to  such  doings;  perhaps  he  was  only  bored. 


88  THE  LONDON  SPY 

But  certainly  he  looked  shy,  spoke  very  quietly, 
and,  at  dinner,  did  little  but  smile  and  agree  with  the 
gracious  company  that  attended  and  deferred  to  him. 
But  how  he  effaced  them  all!  At  the  guest's  table 
were  five  others;  but  there  was  only  one  that  drew 
the  eye,  and  that  the  smallest,  least  Impressive  of 
them.  That  table  in  a  quiet  corner  was  the  centre 
of  the  room,  and  a  stranger  entering  would  instinc- 
tively have  looked  first  at  that  party.  Meanwhile 
Inman  ate  and  beamed  and  murmured  Yes  and  No, 
looking  up  only  at  Intervals. 

But  in  the  billiards  room,  what  a  change.  His 
diflldent  manner  he  threw  away  with  his  coat.  He 
beamed  no  more.  His  face  set  in  quiet  lines.  And 
when  he  drew  his  cue  from  his  case,  it  was  as  though 
he  drew  a  sword  and  assumed  a  pose  that  made  these 
others  but  sorry  creatures.  The  moment  it  was  in 
his  hands  the  air  of  championship  rayed  out  from 
him.  Here  was  the  craftsman  among  his  materials, 
forgetful  of  the  occasion,  forgetful  of  courtiers  and 
kings.  He  seemed  to  banish  his  hosts  from  his 
radius;  they  were  not  there.  The  crowd  poured 
down  and  stood  with  intent  eyes  watching  his  pre- 
parations, and  he  had  not  even  a  glance  for  them. 
He  was  bursting  with  Inmanlty.  The  room  was 
clogged  with  Inman  and  billiards  table. 

With  magnificent  gesture  he  stretched  his  cue  and 
chalked  it.  With  the  manner  of  a  master  he  exam- 
ined the  balls.     If  only  those  inept  folk  who  are 


IN  THE  STREETS  OF  RICH  MEN         89 

called  upon  to  perform  the  solemn  rite  of  laying  a 
foundation  stone  or  launching  a  ship,  or  unveiling  a 
statue — which  is  usually  fumbled,  with  a  miserable 
compromise  between  the  reverent  and  the  casual,  the 
aloof  and  the  intimate — if  only  these  people  had  a 
touch  of  the  true  greatness  of  Inman  or  Irving  or 
W.  G.  Grace  or  General  Booth !  With  half-closed 
eyelids  he  stood  waiting  for  his  opponent — the  crack 
player  of  the  Club.  Then  he  went  to  the  table  with 
something  of  the  brilliant  aplomb  of  the  fire  engine. 

The  match  began.  Five  hundred  up.  Fuller  and 
fuller  did  Inman  grow.  Under  the  brilliant  light 
one  saw  a  ruddy,  strained  face,  taut  mouth,  the  eyes 
heavy.  Whatever  expression  it  held  lay  about  the 
prominent  eyebrows.  For  the  rest  one  saw  only  a 
pair  of  arms  and  stout  but  sensitive  hands.  He 
moved  round  the  table  with  quick  short  steps,  un- 
gracefully; but  clearly  deportment  didn't  interest 
him.  Otherwise,  his  feet  would  have  been  as  lithe  as 
his  hands. 

It  was  an  exhibition  match,  and  he  exhibited.  He 
was  showing-off,  but  it  was  gorgeous  showing-off. 
He  accomplished  things  that,  I  think,  he  would  never 
have  attempted  in  a  match;  impossible  things,  it 
seemed  to  me,  against  all  the  laws  of  angles.  He 
seemed  to  be  above  those  laws.  He  seemed  to  be 
master  of  the  balls,  and  to  send  them  about  his  busi- 
ness as  he  would.  It  was  devilment — a  white  ball 
streaming  across  green  cloth  to  go  here,  there,  back, 


90  THE  LONDON  SPY 

across,  at  the  lightest  touch  of  the  wizard's  wand. 
It  thrilled  me  as,  I  fancy,  folk  were  thrilled  by  Paga- 
nini's  devilish  mastery  of  the  fiddle. 

When,  at  some  great  burst  of  applause,  he  turned 
in  acknowledgment,  with  what  nice  sense  he  did  it. 
With  what  exquisite  poise  he  assumed  and  twitched 
the  native  mantle  of  those  courtiers.  And  how"  de- 
liciously  he  missed  and  flummoxed,  so  that  his  op- 
ponent should  have  a  chance  at  the  table;  and  then 
retired  to  the  shadow  and  sat  motionless,  eyes  on 
the  table,  seeming  to  freeze  the  balls  where  they 
lay. 

Oh,  pretty  fellow! 

But  that  wasn't  my  only  adventure  in  the  streets 
of  rich  men.  I  have  done  other  wonderful  things. 
I  have  even  lunched  in  Berkeley  Square.  Yes,  I 
have.  That  in  itself  is  an  adventure,  but  at  the  lunch 
I  made  the  acquaintance  of  Solomon,  the  pianist,  and 
a  secret  fealty  was  sworn  between  us  over  a  mutual 
delight  in  fried  potatoes. 

Solomon  is  an  arresting  personality,  and  his  taste 
for  fried  potatoes  is  not  out  of  character,  for  he 
was  born  in  London,  well  within  the  sound  of  Bow 
Bells,  and  belongs  to  several  generations  of  London- 
ers. He  is  our  only  Cockney  pianist.  My  first  meet- 
ing with  him  in  Berkeley  Square  left  me  with  an 
impression  of  moonlight,  and  a  desire  to  see  him 
outside  Berkeley  Square  in  daylight.     Since  then  we 


IN  THE  STREETS  OF  RICH  MEN         91 

have  had  many  talks  and  meetings,  but  the  first  im- 
pression remains.  His  dark  head,  the  dark  eyes 
flashing  with  sombre  tints,  like  water  at  midnight, 
the  dark  colour,  and  the  deep  voice  that  seldom. rises 
above  a  murmur,  all  suggested  night;  but  it  is  night 
lit  by  the  clear  high  spirit  of  youth  that  hovers  about 
him  and  is  seen  in  the  twinkling  lips  and  in  his  atti- 
tudes and  gestures. 

You  have  not  been  five  minutes  in  his  company 
before  you  discover  that  he  has  heights  and  depths. 
He  is  a  wonder,  and  everybody  wonders  at  him.  I 
think  he  wonders  at  himself.  He  gives  no  sign  of  it, 
but  his  very  seriousness  implies  a  consciousness  of 
gifts  which  must  be  carefully  guarded  and  used  only 
to  the  highest  purpose.  Many,  no  doubt,  will  re- 
member him  as  a  little  boy  of  ten,  in  the  usual  velvet 
suit  of  the  prodigy — a  tiny  figure  that  could  hardly 
be  distinguished  from  the  great  piano  on  the  great 
platform  of  that  great  Coliseum — the  Albert  Hall. 
He  was  eight  years  old  when  he  first  appeared  as  a 
soloist  and  people  wondered  then  at  the  prodigious 
technique  and  temperament  of  this  solemn  elf.  But 
at  the  age  of  twelve  he  disappeared,  and  it  was  as- 
sumed that  he  had  gone  the  way  of  all  prodigies, 
and  would  be  heard  of  no  more. 

They  were  wTong,  and  I  think  his  appearances  as 
an  adult  pianist  have  shown  that  he  was  no  mere 
season's  sensation.  What  happened  was  that  a  group 
of  people  recognised  the  boy's  ability,  and  interested 


92  THE  LONDON  SPY 

themselves  In  his  career;  for  Solomon  was  born  with 
genius  only,  and  the  silver  spoon  was  missing.  They 
knew  that  if  he  were  kept  at  work  throughout  adol- 
escence he  would  become  stale,  and  his  growing 
genius  would  be  thwarted  and  perhaps  killed.  In 
1916,  therefore,  Percy  Colson,  the  composer,  formed 
a  small  committee  of  music-lovers,  who  made  it  their 
business  to  take  him  off  the  public  platform  and  to 
control  his  musical  education.  The  committee  sent 
him  to  the  Continent,  and  there  he  remained  for  six 
years  studying  under  Duprey  and  Cortot;  and  he  was 
not  permitted  to  make  a  public  appearance  until  his 
tutors  and  guardians  were  fully  satisfied  with  him. 
■Cortot,  himself  a  master,  has  hailed  him  as  the  com- 
ing master,  and  Is  watching  his  first  flight  with  In- 
terest. 

With  all  his  temperament,  which  he  reserves  ex- 
clusively for  his  work,  and  with  all  his  devotion  to 
his  work,  he  Is  a  happy  human  boy.  He  is  still 
"Solomon."  He  was  born  with  another  name,  but  he 
wishes  to  be  known  only  by  his  first  name.  He  is  still 
in  his  'teens,  and  loves  all  the  things  that  most  ap- 
peal to  that  age.  Next  to  his  piano  he  loves  his 
push-bike;  and  two  great  delights  are  the  Palladium 
music-hall  and  fried  potatoes.  If  he  is  not  in  the 
mood,  you  cannot  get  him  to  talk  of  music,  or  of  his 
new  feelings  about  a  hackneyed  passage  of  Schumann 
or  Brahms;  but  he  will  talk  for  half  an  hour  of 
Harry  Weldon,  Billy  Merson,  and  Charles  Austin; 


IN  THE  STREETS  OF  RICH  MEN         93 

and  when  you  would  have  him  at  the  piano,  he  will 
offer  you  a  dish  of  fried  potatoes. 

Restful  and  serene  in  manner,  he  arrests  attention 
at  first  glance.  Although  quiet  and  reticent,  he  has 
not  a  trace  of  the  morbidity  that  sometimes  goes 
with  youthful  genius.  "He  has  eyes  of  youth;  he 
speaks  April  and  May." 

It  is  my  fervent  hope  that  he  will  not  fall,  as  so 
many  musicians  do  fall,  into  those  places  that  are  as 
the  plague  to  the  artist,  and  quickly  destroy  him.  I 
mean  society  drawing-rooms  and  the  streets  of  rich 
men.  But  I  think  he  has  too  deep  and  Heinesque  a 
sense  of  humour  to  permit  himself  to  be  lionised. 
I  think  that  where  another  might  be  found  at  Lady 
DInkum's  reception,  Solomon  will  be  found  in  the 
grand  circle  at  the  Palladium,  or  buying  bananas  in 
Little  Newport  Street,  or  eating  fried  potatoes  at  a 
street  corner. 

There  is  in  the  West  End  little  character  of  the 
sort  one  finds  in  the  humbler  streets;  no  downright, 
deeply-lined,  tv/isted,  bitten-in  character.  The  people 
who  live  in  these  parts  are  trained  to  keep  in  check 
any  little  idiosyncrasies  that  mark  them  from  their 
fellows,  and  the  side-streets  of  Piccadilly  offer  noth- 
ing of  fantasy  or  flamboyance.  But  here  and  there, 
among  the  workers  of  these  side-streets,  you  do  hap- 
•pen  upon  whimsical  water-colour  character,  laid,  as 
it  were,  upon  superfine  deckle-edged  paper;  and  in 


94.  THE  LONDON  SPY 

the  old  mews  of  Mayfair  many  hard-up  people  have 
found  lodging.  These  mews,  which  once  sheltered 
the  horses,  carriages,  and  grooms  of  the  rich,  are 
useless  as  garages,  and  some  of  them  have  lately 
been  converted  into  dwellings  and  studios.  In  Apple 
Tree  Yard  lives  William  Nicholson,  and  W.  H. 
Davies,  the  poet,  has  renounced  the  broad  highways 
of  the  country  for  an  elegant  postal  address.  You 
will  find  him  In  a  true  poet's  garret  off  Brook  Street, 
and  you  will  meet  him  most  mornings  In  Bond  Street, 
and  will  wonder  what  he  is  doing  there,  among  ele- 
gant men  and  their  groomed  trollops.  The  cuckoo 
has  been  heard  in  Hyde  Park;  people  have  written 
to  the  papers  about  It;  but  the  thrush  In  Bond  Street 
Is  a  matter  more  marvellous  and  serious.  Had 
Davies  settled  In  Runcorn  or  Oldham  or  Ashton-in- 
Makerfield,  the  news  would  have  saddened  us  but 
not  perplexed  us.  But  Davies  In  Bond  Street  is 
Wrong,  as  Wrong  as  a  Bond  Street  lady  in  the  cow- 
shed. Yet  It  Is  pleasant  to  meet  him  there;  to  find 
one  touch  of  true  grace  In  this  vapid  street.  He 
plods  along  with  stick  and  pipe,  a  short  figure,  with 
face  upturned,  always  upturned,  the  large  brown 
eyes  settled  serenely  upon  things  more  durable  than 
gold-tipped  cigarettes  and  handbags.  He  brings  to 
this  street  of  Ignoble  dignities  a  breath  of  old 
brotherhood  with  the  simplicities.  He  sends  a  note 
of  Mozartlan  song  across  this  musical-comedy  stage. 
More  In  the  key  of  the  West  End  Is  friend  Bot- 


IN  THE  STREETS  OF  RICH  MEN         95 

torn  (old  B.)  of  Duke  Street.  He  was  once  a  news- 
agent, but  is  now  a  tobacconist  in  town  and  a  farmer 
in  Essex.  He  is  a  Midsummer  Night's  Dream  Child. 
He  is  a  sort  of  brother  to  Davy  Stephens  of  Dublin. 
He  respects  nobody  and  his  attitude  is  fully  licensed. 
When  he  was  a  newsagent  he  wrote  his  own  news- 
bills,  facetiously.  In  chalk,  on  two  large  slates  hung 
outside  his  shops.  Each  bill  dug  into  the  private  life 
of  some  local  friend  or  celebrity.    Thus: 

SCENE   IN    PICCADILLY 
DR.  DUSTIN  BACKS  A  WINNER 


CRISIS  IN  THE  WEST 
MR.  ELLIS  GOES  HOME  EARLY 


THE    SECOND    ADVENT 
MR.  CHAPLIN  ARRIVES  AT  THE  RITZ 

On  any  morning  walk  about  Piccadilly,  you  are 
sure  to  meet  Bottom,  and  his  airy  salutation  will 
brighten  the  worst  of  days — and  wet  days  are  more 
disheartening  in  Piccadilly  than  in  any  other  street. 
But  for  a  lesson  in  heartiness  and  uplift,  you  should 
make  the  acquaintance  of  Mr.  Proops.  He  is  most 
useful  on  those  days  when  you  have  no  money  and 
no  hope.  He  won't  lend  you  any  money,  but  he  will 
send  you  away  with  the  sense  that  the  year's  at  the 
Spring  and  all's  right  with  the  world.    You  are  stroll- 


96  THE  LONDON  SPY 

ing  aimlessly  along  that  section  of  Piccadilly  where 
are  Hatchard's,  Fortnum  and  Mason's,  Hatchett's, 
Sotheran's,  Bond  Street,  and  the  Ritz.  Suddenly, 
somebody  stops,  head  thrown  back  in  surprise  and 
gratification.     A  hand  shoots  towards  you. 

"Ha !  Well,  well,  well.  Let  me  shake  you  by 
the  hand,  my  good  and  honest  friend.  The  first  true 
man  I  have  seen  this  week.  Does  the  world  wag  its 
tail  at  you?  In  other  words,  good  brother,  did  you 
back  All  Over  yesterday,  or  not?  No?  Well,  well, 
well!" 

Proops  is  a  sort  of  Bardolph,  strutting  always, 
whether  he  is  in  funds  or  without  a  bean.  He  wears 
his  panache  for  the  world's  amusement,  and  he  can 
approach  you  with  the  air  of  lending  you  money,  and 
leave  you  his  creditor.  Only  the  West  End  produces 
that  kind  of  men. 

The  figure  I  most  like  to  meet  in  the  West  is  a 
figure  that  is  only  to  be  seen  during  the  London  sea- 
son; the  figure  of  Frank  Crowninshield,  editor  of 
New  York's  debonair  monthly  "Vanity  Fair."  The 
post  fits  him.  The  casual  reader  of  the  magazine, 
visualising  idly  its  editor,  would  visualise  just  such  a 
personality  as  Frank  Crowninshield.  One  would 
say  that  he  was  created  by  Mr.  Beerbohrrt.  His  rich, 
yet  delicate  character  belongs  to  the  deckle-edged 
pages  of  Max.  Gay,  disarmingly  cynical,  yet  impul- 
sive and  warm  as  the  South,  and  as  piquant  as  the 
South-east,  he  baEles  the  interpreter.     And  I  have  a 


IN  THE  STREETS  OF  RICH  MEN         97 

fancy  that  he  means  to  baffle  you.  That  is  the  way 
of  the  decorative  character;  he  decorates  so  that  the 
common  people  shall  not  invade  and  disturb  the  true 
self.  Crowninshield  is  wholly  modern,  but  he  im- 
poses upon  his  modernity  the  dash  and  charm  of  the 
cavalier  which  glitter  in  his  very  name.  He  loves 
the  arts  and  the  graces,  but  I  think  he  loves  life 
more.  Wherever  the  movement  is,  there  is  Crown- 
inshield. He  lights  up  his  circle  and  sets  it  flaming 
and  flickering,  while  he  himself  remains  serene  and 
steady.  He  rides  on  the  whirlwind  and  directs  the 
storm.  That  is  the  secret  of  the  good  Prime  Minis- 
ter and  the  good  editor.  Crowninshield  has  it  in  large 
measure.  It  is  difBcult  to  decorate  a  rococo  street 
like  Piccadilly,  but  Crowninshield  does  decorate  it 
— and  stimulate  it.  His  tall  swaying  figure,  his 
manner,  his  smile,  and  his  delight  at  seeing  you  out 
of  all  London's  millions,  at  once  hearten  and  soothe 
your  nerves.  He  is  champagne  and  cigar  in  one. 
One  of  my  adventures  into  the  streets  of  rich  men 
stands  out  very  clearly.  This  was  a  visit  to  Clar- 
idge's.  Claridge's  is  the  hotel  of  the  Complete  Rich. 
It  is  a  sort  of  semi-public  Athenaeum — serene,  aloof, 
exclusive.  There  is  little  movement  in  its  main  hall; 
none  of  the  diligent  or  subdued  bustle  of  other 
hotels.  Everything  goes  on  wheels,  and  the  wheels 
are  cased  in  velvet.  I  imagine  it  Is  something  like 
the  reception  rooms  of  Buckingham  Palace.  Cer- 
tainly it  is  full  of  traps  for  the  inexperienced.     The 


98  THE  LONDON  SPY 

worst  trap  of  all  lies  in  this — there  are  no  uniforms 
at  Claridge's;  and  if  you  don't  know  that  (I  didn't) 
you  may  easily  blister  your  self-respect  for  your 
whole  week.  For  fifteen  minutes  1  hung  about  that 
hall  in  the  company  of  agreeable  and  apparently  idle 
young  gentlemen  in  elegant  morning  dress,  before 
one  of  them  rescued  me  and  showed  me  to  the  lift. 
Even  if  you  know  that  these  young  gentlemen  are 
attendants,  there's  always  the  risk  of  addressing  the 
one  who  isn't  (these  foreign  princes  who  stay  at 
Claridge's  are  not  always  dressed  by  Savile  Row). 
You  have  to  take  your  chance,  as,  at  Madame  Tus- 
saud's,  you  offer  your  sixpence  to  the  programme 
girl,  and  take  your  chance  whether  she's  a  dummy. 
Happily  I  got  through  without  any  bloomers,  and 
was  shown  to  the  guest  I  had  gone  to  see — Mr. 
Isidore  de  Lara.  Here  is  another  deckle-edged 
figure.  His  figure  is  short,  but  it  carries  a  head  of 
the  kind  called  leonine,  with  an  ample  iron-grey  mane. 
His  suave  and  genial  manner  suits  the  head.  He 
has  the  English  repose,  but  one  is  sensible  now  and 
then  of  a  dash  of  the  Latin.  It  leaps  from  his  eyes 
and  from  the  quick  inflections  of  the  voice.  Why 
the  composer  of  "Messaline"  should  have  chosen  to 
set  a  rag-tag  London  song  of  mine,  I  don't  know. 
But  he  had  so  chosen,  and  I  went  to  Claridge's  to 
hear  his  setting  tried  over.  I  have  suggested  the  at- 
mosphere of  Claridge's.     I  now  give  you  the  first 


verse  of  that  song: 


IN  THE  STREETS  OF  RICH  MEN         99 

He  was  a  bad  glad  sailor-man. 

Tan-tan-ta-ran-tan-tare-o ! 
You  never  could  find  a  haler  man. 

Tan-tan-ta-ran-tan-tare ! 
All  human  wickedness  he  knew 
From  Milwall  Docks  to  Pi-chi-lu. 
He  loved  all  things  that  make  us  gay — 
He'd  spit  his  juice  ten  yards  away, 

And  roundly  he'd  declare — o! 
"It  isn't  so  much  that  I  want  yer  beer 
As  yer  bloody  good  company ! 

Whrow-ow-Whrow ! 
Bloody  good  companee! 
Wow! 

And  now,  please,  imagine  a  pink-and-white  bed- 
room at  Claridge's;  Isidore  de  Lara,  grey  and  bland, 
at  the  piano,  myself  standing  over  him;  and  the  two 
of  us  shouting  that  song,  with  gusto  on  the  "Wows" 
and  the  epithet.  .  .  .  Four  times  that  song  rang 
through  the  green  velvet  corridors.  Four  times  did 
sacrilege  persist.  Princes,  diplomats,  runaway  prin- 
cesses, exiled  monarchs,  financiers,  courtiers, 
and  other  truly  great  folk  have  sought  refuge  at 
Claridge's,  appreciating  its  chaste  solitude  and  re- 
pose. I  like  to  think  that  I  was  in  part  responsible 
for  what  I  may  call  the  Rape  of  Claridge's. 
Whether  Mr.  de  Lara  heard  about  it  afterwards,  I 
don't  know.  Probably  not.  Claridge's,  I  thinks 
would  have  difficulty  in  framing  a  complaint  against 
such     disorder.      There     are     some     things,     you 


100  THE  LONDON  SPY 

know  .  .  .  Well,  what  could  Buckingham  Palace  do 
if  somebody  got  Sam  Mayo  to  give  one  of  his  songs 
at  a  Drawing  Room? 

A  year  ago  come  Valentine's  Day  I  was  taken,  for 
the  first  time,  to  see  one  of  the  sights  of  London. 
I  was  taken  to  the  House  of  Commons.  The  House 
is  one  of  those  places  to  which  the  Cockney  never 
goes.  Others  are  the  Tower,  St.  Paul's,  the  British 
Museum,  Mme.  Tussaud's,  the  National  Gallery, 
the  Abbey,  and  the  Crystal  Palace.  I  wouldn't  have 
gone  then,  but  for  a  wet  night.  But  in  the  middle 
of  a  fair  afternoon  rain  came  down  a  little  too 
heavily  for  comfort,  and  as  neither  Monk  nor  I 
had  money  for  theatres,  cinemas,  restaurants  or 
other  public  shelters.  Monk  said  "Let's  go  to  the 
House.     I  can  always  get  in  there." 

So  we  went  to  the  House,  I  with  a  sense  of  high 
adventure.  Everything  Once  is  my  motto.  I  was 
going  to  note  the  very  heart-throbs  of  this  England 
of  ours.  I  was  going  to  see  for  the  first  time  the 
Mother  of  all  Parliaments.  I  was  going  to  see 
mighty  minds  in  labour,  and  to  assist  in  the  bringing- 
forth  of  world-ideas.  I  was  going  to  see  the  essence 
of  my  country,  to  gaze  upon  those  few,  chosen  from 
the  millions  of  our  populace,  who  mould  a  mighty 
state's  decrees  and  shape  the  whisper  of  a  throne. 
I  was  going  to   .   .   . 

Then  Monk  said,  "sh!"  and  J  subdued  myself  to 


IN  THE  STREETS  OF  RICH  MEN       101 

the  tone  proper  to  such  an  occasion.  Might,  ma- 
jesty, dominion  and  power  were  to  be  manifested,  I 
entered  the  halls  with  the  suitable  mien  and  gait, 
something  between  the  style  of  a  bishop  at  the  altar 
and  a  Cabinet  Minister  kissing  hands.  I  stepped 
reverently  yet  sturdily.  I  doffed  my  hat.  I  saluted 
the  soul  of  England  with  head  erect.  I  entered  the 
House  of  Commons. 

And  all  my  soul-preparation  was  wasted.  I  need 
not  have  gone  through  these  motions  at  all.  I  had 
thought  I  was  attending  a  Council  of  the  Elders  of 
the  Greatest  Nation  of  the  Earth.  Nothing  like  it. 
I  was  actually  attending  the  Greatest  Show  on  Earth. 
Many  theatrical  and  circus-managers  have  made  that 
extravagant  claim  for  their  shows,  but  there's  only 
one  proof  of  it,  and  that  Is  the  queue  at  the  box- 
office.  And  the  House  of  Commons  has  them  all 
beaten.  Weather  and  circumstances,  hard  times, 
good  times,  serious  times,  trivial  times,  good  turns, 
bad  turns, — these  make  no  difference  to  the  ticket- 
office  of  the  House.  Theatres  and  cinemas  may  com- 
plain of  the  slump,  and  assign  varying  causes  to  it, — 
the  times,  the  fine  weather,  the  increasing  critical 
faculty  of  the  public — but  the  House  is  untouched 
by  these  things.  Matinee  or  evening,  always  there's 
a  queue  lined  up  In  the  lobby;  and  if  you  get  there 
a  few  minutes  after  time,  the  House  is  full,  and  you 
have   to  wait  your  turn.      When   the   theatres   and 


102  THE  LONDON  SPY 

cinemas  can't  fill  one-tenth  of  their  seats,  the  House 
is  turning  people  away  nightly. 

And  the  crowd  is  justified.  The  House  puts  up  a 
good  show.  It  is  the  best  variety  house  in  the  coun- 
try, and,  like  the  police  court,  it  is  free.  Even  its 
dud  turns  don't  empty  the  seats.  They  may  empty 
the  Members'  benches,  but  the  public  eat  up  every 
bit  of  the  show,  and  find  it  all  good;  and  when  the 
Hon.  Member  for  Mutton-in-the-Marsh  rises  to 
promote  a  bill  for  the  provision  of  tramways  at  Mut- 
ton, the  gallery  crowd  leans  a  bit  further  over  the 
rail  and  settles  down.  "Sh !  This  is  going  to  be 
good  !"  Talk  about  "Chu  Chin  Chow"  and  its  record 
run.  Here's  a  show  that  has  been  playing  for  cen- 
turies and  still  draws  a  full  house. 

We  were  received  in  the  outer  hall  by  a  policeman. 
He  passed  us  on  to  another  policeman,  who  showed 
us  to  another  policeman,  who  told  us  to  sit  down. 
I  had  never  seen  so  many  policemen  in  any  East  End 
highway  as  here.  After  a  wait  of  some  minutes  In 
the  picture-gallery  we  were  beckoned  forward  and 
taken  through  the  Lobby  and  upstairs.  Here  at  the 
top  of  the  stairs  sat  a  personage  in  evening  dress, 
decorated  with  a  medal,  whether  for  regular  at- 
tendance or  general  proficiency,  I  could  not  tell. 
Before  him  was  a  mighty  book,  in  which  he  bade  us 
write  our  names.  Then  still  more  policemen  ushered 
us  to  the  gallery,  and  there  before  me  I  saw  the 
Great  Assembly  in  full  business. 


IN  THE  STREETS  OF  RICH  MEN       103 

I  found  myself  in  a  chamber  of  ecclesiastical  type, 
without  windows  or  lighting  fixtures,  lighted  artifi- 
cially from  the  top.  The  air  was  musty,  like  church 
or  theatre  air,  and  the  atmosphere  of  hush  that  held 
the  gallery  made  me  tread  lightly  as  one  entering 
during  the  psalms  or  after  the  curtain  is  up.  The 
seats  in  the  gallery  are  of  that  hard  wood  which 
serves  for  church  pews.  The  House  was  full,  and 
I  looked  down  upon  a  hundred  bald  heads,  which 
bobbed  up  and  down  like  little  balloons.  Fat  men 
wandered  in.  Fat  men  wandered  out.  Fat  men  went 
to  sleep.  And  over  all  was  bzz-bzz,  burble-burble, 
broken  now  and  then  by  a  broad  murmur.  "Yoah- 
hoah-hoah!"  At  once  my  mind  went  back  to  my 
first  play — "The  Sign  of  the  Cross."  It  was  just  the 
noise  of  the  roaring  of  the  lions  "off"  by  hungry 
supers;  but  here,  I  was  told,  it  signified  approval, 
not  hunger  or  challenge.     Then  I  looked  about  me. 

Centre  of  all  sat,  on  a  sort  of  throne,  an  imposing 
Personage  in  wig  and  gov/n.  Before  him,  at  a  table, 
sat  three  gentlemen  in  less  elaborate  wigs,  and  at 
either  side  of  him,  assisting  the  theatre-illusion, 
stood  two  elegant  figures  in  evening  dress,  as  Corn- 
mere  and  Compere  stand  at  either  side  of  the  stage 
in  revue.  I  had  expected  the  Mother  of  all  Parlia- 
ments to  show  an  example  of  the  highest  in  all  things, 
but,  except  in  the  fun,  I  was  disappointed.  The 
crowd  was  a  crowd  of  ordinary  people,  ill-dressed 
but  well-fed;  just  the  kind  of  people  one  goes  home 


104  THE  LONDON  SPY 

with  in  the  tram  or  the  bus ;  only  fatter.  The  clothes, 
style,  and  speech  were  all  provincial,  and  the  atmo- 
sphere was  provincial,  full  of  the  tun-bellied  John 
Bullishness  of  the  cartoons.  I  had  imagined  it  to  be 
charged  nightly  with  dignity,  passion,  rivalry,  scorn, 
rancour  and  indignation.  I  found  that  its  tone  was 
more  casual  than  the  tone  of  the  Wandsworth  Bor- 
ough Council,  and  the  whole  proceedings  were  taken 
with  a  note  of  levity  that  is  too  seldom  found  in  our 
theatres.  It  was  an  assembly  of  bland  heads,  bland 
voices  and  bland  philosophy;  of  inept  creatures  hon- 
estly doing  their  best  to  serve  their  fellows.  And 
above  them,  in  the  Press  Gallery,  the  gods  laughed. 

The  bewigged  gentleman  in  the  high  chair  seemed 
at  first  to  have  some  air  of  solemnity,  of  inflexible 
purpose  and  austerity;  but  when  he  raised  his  head, 
one  saw  the  face  of  an  ordinary  man  thoroughly  en- 
joying himself.  His  eyes  twinkled  at  the  pert  re- 
plies of  ministers  or  the  impertinent  interjections  of 
refractory  Members;  and  he  joined  with  shaking 
shoulders  in  the  laughter  that  greeted  the  funny  bits 
of  the  star  turns.  Clearly  he  enjoyed  it  as  much  as 
I  did;  yet  he  saw  it  every  night.  Anyway,  his  is  an 
amusing  job;  for  it  is  his  nod  and  beck  that  sets 
those  little  balloons  dancing  up  and  down.  It  was 
question  time  when  we  entered,  and  the  fun  was  kept 
up  by  both  sides. 

The  gentleman  in  the  wig  called  upon  "Hon'ble 
Member  for  Mutton." 


IN  THE  STREETS  OF  RICH  MEN       105 

Bald  head  rises:  "Number  eighty-four  to  Minister 
for  health." 

Gentleman  with  bald  head  and  hook  nose  gets  up. 
"Nyah,  nyah." 

Another  bald  head.  "Mis'r  Sp'kr,  sir,  arising  out 
of  that  answer — " 

"Order,  order!" 

Again  like  a  show,  all  the  points  of  this  question- 
and-answer  business  are  pre-arranged.  I  had  thought, 
like  the  child  at  the  variety  show,  that  the  varieties 
just  happened.  But  it  isn't  so.  Questions  are  writ- 
ten down  and  printed  on  the  Order  paper,  and 
sent  to  Cabinet  Ministers,  who  send  them  to  their 
departments.  The  departments  write  replies  and 
give  them  to  the  Cabinet  Minister.  Question  and 
answer  are  printed  and  circulated  in  the  daily  issue 
of  Hansard.  Yet  every  day  hon.  Members  make 
these  questions  verbally  In  the  House,  and  Cabinet 
Ministers  answer  them  verbally.  There  is  nothing 
haphazard  here.  All  is  rehearsed  and  calculated. 
There  are  no  spontaneous  speeches,  no  unrehearsed 
"scenes."  .  .  .  All  speeches  are  really  lectures,  read- 
ings of  "papers,"  and  all  the  movements  of  debate 
are  like  the  movements  of  a  ballet — only  less  pas- 
sionate. 

After  question-time  there  came  an  interval,  and 
half  the  Members  trooped  out.  The  gentleman  in 
the  wig  rose  and  announced  the  next  item,  and  called 
upon  the  hon.   Member  for  Trumpington.     I  had 


106  THE  LONDON  SPY 

heard  about  him.  He  was  always  speaking  some- 
where and  getting  into  the  papers  with  httle  aphor- 
isms in  those  columns  headed  Wise  Words  of  the 
Week.  Decidedly  a  son  of  Anak.  Then  he  stood 
up — a  little  fellow,  with  baggy  trousers,  mottled 
face,  wandering  eye,  and  butcher's  stomach.  I  had 
read  some  of  his  speeches,  and  they  read  well.  Now 
I  was  granted  the  spectacle  of  fretting  pomp  in  its 
natural  state.  It  was  difficult  to  believe  that  the  man 
was  serious.  It  was  difficult  to  believe  that  this 
was  not  some  cunning  revue  actor  giving  an  impres- 
sion of  a  solemn  ass.  I  had  thought  in  my  innocence, 
though  I  ought  to  have  known  better,  that  the 
speeches  I  read  were  delivered  as  they  were  printed 
— -hot  from  the  heart,  clear-cut,  sentence  following 
sentence,  smooth  and  straight.  One  reads  something 
like  this : 

"When  people  ask  us  to  see  signs  of  failure  in  the  present 
association  of  parties,  I  absolutelj^  challenge  the  statement 
that  has  been  made  of  failure.  The  man  is  mad  who  would 
say  that  any  Minister  of  the  Government  would  not  lay  aside 
his  burden  with  a  sigh  of  relief.  Is  there  any  man  who 
would  say  that  any  member  of  the  Government,  for  his  own 
enjoyment,  ambition,  or  emolument,  is  desirous  of  clinging 
to  office  and  dealing  with  such  problems  as  Ireland,  Egj^pt, 
India,  the  financial  situation  and  the  spectre  of  2,000,000 
men  idle  in  our  streets?" 

This  is  how  it  is  done.  "Mis'r  Sp'kr,  sir — (jerk 
at  coat) .    When  people  ask  us  ( glance  round  House ) 


IN  THE  STREETS  OF  RICH  MEN       107 

ask  us  to  see  signs  of  failure  (prrhm!)  in  the  pres- 
ent association  of  parties  (snuffle)  I  absolutely — er 
— absolutely  challenge  the  statement  that  has  been 
made  (prrhm!)  of  failure.  (Pause.)  I  say  that 
that  man  is  mad — er — mad,  who  would  say  (busi- 
ness with  waistcoat  button)  that  any  Member  of  the 
Government  would  not  (fumble  among  papers) 
would  not  lay  aside  his  burden  with  a  sigh  of  relief. 
Of  relief.  Is  there  any  man — any  man — who  would 
say  (fumble)"  and  so  on. 

When  he  had  finished,  another  bald  head  got  up, 
and  talked  copy-book  maxims  to  twenty  other  men 
who  were  not  listening.  Weary  platitudes  splashed 
and  pattered  into  the  thick  khaki  light.  It  is  a  light 
that  withers  all  inspiration.  Men  could  not  talk  like 
that  under  spring  sunshine.  Even  my  friend  Mr. 
Gore  and  his  collateral  branches  who  make  up  the 
majority  of  the  House  are  sane  in  the  sun. 

Mr.  Gore,  if  you  don't  know  him,  is  the  fount  of 
all  wisdom,  the  maker  of  all  proverbs,  the  progeni- 
tor of  all  platitudes.  Out  of  his  mouth  proceeds 
dessicated  truth.  It  was  he,  I  am  sure,  who  wrote 
those  gemmy  aphorisms  that  disfigured  Vere  Foster's 
Copy-books  in  my  young  days.  He  is  as  didactic  as 
Euclid;  and  as  right — damn  him.  It  is  his  observant 
and  ruminant  mind  that  notes  that  a  bird  in  the  hand 
is  worth  two  in  the  bush;  and  tells  you  so.  He  dis- 
covers each  morning  some  new  truth;  as  that  money 
doesn't  bring  happiness;  that  his  dog  is  wonderfully 


108  THE  LONDON  SPY 

intelligent;  that  you  can  have  too  much  of  a  good 
thing;  that  it's  a  funny  world;  that  the  Pacific  Ocean 
is  very  wide;  that  wonders  never  cease;  that  South 
Sea  Islands  are  lonely  places,  that  the  evenings  are 
drawing  in,  and  that  we  shall  soon  have  Christmas 
here.  But  where  Euclid,  when  he  said  a  thing,  said 
it  once  and  left  it,  Mr,  Gore  reiterates  incessantly. 
What  he  discovered  on  Monday  he  discovers  anew 
on  Thursday.  He  does  not,  like  most  of  us  who 
repeat  platitudes,  employ  the  disclaiming  "Well, 
they  say  that  .  .  ."  as  a  prelude  to  his  pronounce- 
ments. He  claims  them  as  his  own  with  "I 
was  thinking  this  morning  .  .  ."  or  "I  always 
think  .  .   ." 

He  lies  in  bed  at  night  and  early  morning  think- 
ing, thinking,  happening  at  times  upon  the  golden 
thought  for  the  day,  which  he  forthwith  proclaims 
wherever  he  goes.  And  he  goes  everywhere.  You 
will  meet  him  in  the  Strand,  in  the  suburbs,  in  the 
East  End,  in  the  Tube,  at  Mayfair  dinner  tables,  in 
the  pleasure-resorts,  in  Egypt,  Algiers,  Morocco, 
Italy,  the  Norwegian  Fiords,  on  all  the  cross-Atlan- 
tic and  P.  &  O.  liners,  among  the  rich,  among  the 
poor,  in  first  and  third-class  railway  carriages,  at 
Monte  Carlo,  at  Vestry  Meetings,  and  certainly  in 
the  House  of  Commons.  And  wherever  you  find 
him,  he  will  be  disseminating  the  results  of  his  mid- 
night cogitations.  Wherever  you  hear  his  voice 
saying  "it  always  seems  to  me  .   .   ."  fly  from  him, 


IN  THE  STREETS  OF  RICH  MEN       109 

even  if  you  are  his  guest  at  dinner;  for  that  means 
that  he  is  about  to  read  Vere  Foster's  copy-books 
aloud.  But  fly  where  you  will,  he  is  certain  to  find 
you  at  last.  When  I  made  my  first  trip  abroad  to 
France,  to  a  small  town  in  the  department  of  Eure, 
sure  enough  he  was  there.  I  alighted  at  a  wayside 
station  in  that  department,  and  he  was  on  the  plat- 
form, with  a  woman — probably  Mrs.  Gore.  He 
was  nursing  a  dog,  and  the  first  words  I  heard  in 
my  first  foreign  town  were  not  French  dialect  but 
Vere  Foster's  English. 

"Ah,"  stroking  the  dog  and  sighing;  "ah,  I  don't 
suppose  we  shall  ever  have  another  Landseer." 

Mr.  Gore  takes  his  tastes  and  his  hobbies  seri- 
ously. He  is  no  mere  enthusiast;  he  is  a  zealot.  He 
does  not,  like  the  rest  of  us,  follow  a  recreation  for 
fun;  he  "believes  in  it."  He  believes  In  starting  the 
day  with  a  good  breakfast.  He  believes  in  fresh 
air.  He  believes  in  outdoor  exercise.  He  does  not 
take  cold  baths  because  he  enjoys  them  but  because 
he  believes  in  them.  His  faith  in  material  manifes- 
tations is  large  and  complete.  He  may  be  spiritually 
a  sceptic  but  he  has  a  simple  faith  in  the  efficacy  of 
flannel  next  the  skin,  of  hot  rum  for  colds,  of  read- 
ing as  a  means  of  self-improvement,  of  attending 
dinners  as  a  means  of  social  advancement.  Joy  is 
absent  from  him.  All  those  grand  foolish  moments 
which  are  to  others  life  itself  he  suffers  in  the  cause 
of  the  faith.     Where  others  accept  and  rejoice,  he 


110  THE  LONDON  SPY 

believes.  He  believes  in  India  and  Ireland  and 
Christmas.  A  festive  season  is  to  him  a  service  to 
be  attended,  an  office  of  his  much  too  common 
prayer-book. 

The  House  of  Commons  is  his  heart's  true  home; 
but  while  in  small  intimate  doses  he  is  an  irritation, 
in  the  mass  he  is  a  stimulant,  an  insane  entertain- 
ment. His  turn  alone  makes  the  House  a  rival  to 
other  houses. 

"Now,  sir,  we  have  been  passing  through  serious 
times;  but  though  the  road  uphill  is  hard,  when  we 
reach  the  top  we  see  the  first  faint  streaks  of  the 
dawn."  (Hear-hear,  Hear-hear.) 

"And  now,  sir,  I  have  nothing  to  add  but  this; 
if  we  face  our  opponents  singly,  we  shall  be  defeated. 
Let  us  show  them  a  united  front;  for — union  is 
Strength."     (Hear-hear,  Hear-hear,  Hear-hear!) 

"And  I  venture  to  say,  sir,  that  nobody  but  a 
Socialist  would  advocate  the  control  of  capital." 
(Hear-hear,  Hear-hear.) 

And  so  the  flummery  went  on;  and  I  was  reminded 
more  and  more  of  the  business  that  I  had  seen  in 
"African  Villages"  at  Earl's  Court  and  other  exhibi- 
tions; native  pow-pows  and  war-councils.  I  once 
thought  that  Gilbert's  "Mikado"  poked  fun  at 
Japanese  court  ceremonial,  but  I  see  now  that  he 
was  more  subtle;  his  satire  was  really  directed  at 
English  parliamentary  ceremonial.  All  the  hirelings 
of  the  House  have  their  own  resounding  titles  of  bar- 


IN  THE  STREETS  OF  RICH  MEN       111 

baric  tone — Black  Rod,  Serjeant-at-Arms,  and  so  on. 
We  send  colonists  and  missionaries  to  Africa,  and 
do  our  best  to  stamp  out  the  rites  and  ceremonies  of 
the  natives,  their  beads  and  coloured  glass  and 
enemies'  teeth  and  skulls,  while  all  the  time  the 
war-paint,  the  foolish  head-dress,  the  incantation 
and  voodoo  business  continue  in  our  own  councils. 
And  I  am  all  for  their  survival  both  in  the  South 
Seas  and  in  Westminster.  For  we  all  love  flummery 
and  mumbo-jumbo.  That  is  why  we  go  to  the  theatre 
and  the  Lord  Mayor's  Show  and  Royal  Weddings. 
That  is  why  the  House  is  such  a  draw.  I  regret  my 
shillings  spent  on  those  "African  Villages,"  and  I 
think  Mr.  Kiralfy  might  have  told  me  that  I  could 
see  the  same  thing  for  nothing. 

Then  things  began  to  move  a  bit.  Everybody 
went  out — in  a  slow-moving  bunch:  a  parade  of 
wooden  soldiers.  For  some  minutes  the  House  was 
empty.  Then  they  all  came  back,  and  there  were 
smiles  and  murmurs  and  growls.  Then  the  man  In 
the  wig  rose  and  said  something,  and  immediately  a 
little  man  with  bobbed  hair  got  up,  and  there  were 
gentle  roars  of  "Yoah-yoah-yoah!"  Clearly  Big- 
Man-of-Wigwam  was  about  to  speak.  He  spoke. 
Quietly  and  slowly  at  first.  Then  it  seemed  he  Got 
Nasty;  and  while  some  murmured  "Yoah-yoah!" 
others,  a  large  number,  growled.  That  roused  him. 
He  turned  about  and  snapped  at  them.  His  bobbed 
hair  bobbed  up  and  down.    He  yoicked.    He  hwiled. 


112  THE  LONDON  SPY 

He  waved  his  little  arms  about.  He  brought  a  hand 
down  with  a  smack  on  the  table.  He  pointed  a 
finger  at  a  man  opposite,  a  knife-faced  man  with 
simian  eye-brows,  and  told  him,  with  an  air  of  blast- 
ing him  where  he  sat,  that  his  conduct  was  un-Eng- 
lish. The  other  didn't  seem  at  all  dismayed.  Big 
Man  went  on,  getting  more  and  more  angry.  At 
any  moment,  I  felt,  he  would  vault  that  table  and 
cross-buttock  the  sneerer.  He  dropped  his  Big- 
Man  manner,  and  gave  a  perfect  imitation  of  school- 
boy temper;  no  grand  remonstrance,  but  a  petty 
snarling  and  yapping.  This  set  the  others  at  it. 
They  called  each  other  names.  They  turned  round 
to  each  other  like  boys  when  the  master's  out  of  the 
room.  They  jeered,  derided,  gestured  and  "Or- 
der !"-ed  each  other.  They  gave  a  display  that  would 
not  be  tolerated  for  a  moment  at  the  Muswell  Hill 
Debating  Society.  But  they  gave  us  our  money's 
worth.    It  was  the  British  mob-spirit  made  manifest. 

Then,  as  it  began,  it  stopped.  Big-Man  simmered 
down,  flourished  a  few  more  phrases,  and  subsided 
amid  Yoah-yoahs  from  the  faithful. 

Other  little  men  bobbed  up,  but  only  one  was  al- 
lowed to  remain  standing.  The  others  sat  down, 
while  he  addressed  the  House.  When  he  sat  down, 
the  disappointed  ones  bobbed  up  again.  No  luck. 
Down  they  sat  again.  Fat  men  wandered  in.  Fat 
men  wandered  out.     Fat  men  went  to  sleep. 

And  over  all  was  bzz-bzz — burble-burble. 


—IV— 
IN  THE  STREETS  OF  THE  SIMPLE 

MY  tenement  days  belong  to  Spltalfields,  and  I 
have  a  deep  affection  for  Spitalfields.  It  is 
a  queer  corner.  It  has  not  one  note,  but  many.  Its 
main  street  is  Commercial  Street,  a  lane  of  angry 
architecture.  It  mixes  industry  with  vagrancy.  It 
is  a  land  of  warehouses  and  doss-houses  and  Dwell- 
ings. It  has  a  vegetable  market  and  a  gravely  beau- 
tiful church,  and  it  is  over-shadowed  by  a  great 
Goods  Station  and  its  many  arches;  these  things  en- 
due it  with  a  baffling  quality  of  charm.  Its  nights 
are  dim  and  its  days  strenuous,  but  it  wants  passion. 
Just  as  the  reclaimed  criminal  is  usually  a  vapid, 
aimless  creature,  so  Spitalfields,  once  hot  and  bright 
with  wickedness,  is  now  pallid  and  lethargic.  It  has 
the  dim  melancholy  of  Russian  cigarettes.  Its  only 
noise  and  movement  come  from  the  Jews  lounging  at 
the  corners,  for  this  ardent  race  even  lounges  vi- 
vaciously. 

But  if  it  is  not  what  it  was,  it  still  holds  in  its 
streets  much  of  wistful  interest;  and  Coverley  Fields, 
Fashion  Street,  Flower  and  Dean  Street,  the  Tenters, 
Weaver  Street,  and  the  faint-smelling  Slavonic  shops 
up  the  alleys  still  send  us  whiffs  of  sad  enchantment. 

113 


114  THE  LONDON  SPY 

For  here  are  gathered  colonies  of  the  strangely  as- 
sorted races  of  the  Balkans — Poles,  Lithuanians, 
Czecho-Slovakians,  Albanians,  Georgians,  Serbs, 
Roumanians,  Esthonians;  many  of  them  refugees  of 
1 9 14  who  have  settled  here,  and  are  quite  comforta- 
ble; yet  fill  the  air  with  exiles'  yearn.  For  them  the 
shops  are  filled  with  strange  merchandise,  and  for 
them  the  horseflesh  butchers  trade,  and  the  bakers 
make  the  queer-shaped  bread. 

But  my  tenement  stands  above  and  outside  this 
exotic  influence,  and  is  wholly  English;  and  in  penur- 
ious days  I  had  good  times  there  with  other  tenants. 
It  is  a  hideous  aliair  to  look  upon.  It  is  of  the  Pea- 
body  school  of  architecture — a  school  that  has  many 
followers.  Its  chief  lesson  is  the  elimination  of 
beauty.  These  buildings  are  for  the  poor;  there- 
fore, they  need  only  be  serviceable;  and  their  build- 
ers spend  a  thousand  pounds  upon  rough  utility  and 
begrudge  tuppence  for  beauty.  Look  upon  our 
Elementary  Schools,  our  Public  Baths,  our  work- 
houses, our  orphanages,  our  infirmaries,  our  "dwell- 
ings," and  compare  them  with  the  dignity  of  our 
stores  and  banks  and  business  offices.  They  are 
sores  on  the  face  of  London.  The  lives  of  the  poor 
are  ugly  enough  by  circumstance;  their  benefactors 
seem  determined  to  keep  them  bound  in  ugliness. 

But  the  tenement  folk  manage,  somehow,  to  tri- 
umph over  the  ugliness  of  Peabody,  and  to  soften 
its  crude  angles  by  kindliness  and  self-help.     I  don't 


IN  THE  STREETS  OF  THE  SIMPLE     115 

know  how  it  is,  but  tenement  families  are  much  more 
agreeable  than  next-door  neighbours  of  houses  or 
flat.  The  tenement,  indeed,  is  one  big  house,  except 
— there  is  an  "except"  in  every  tenement — except 
for  "that  stuck-up  thing,"  Miss  Simpkins  on  the 
third  floor,  who  makes  a  passion  of  reserve,  and 
won't  joint  in  any  of  the  occasions. 

You  may  live  twelve  months  in  a  mansion  flat,  and 
know  nothing  of  your  fellow-tenants,  or  they  of  you; 
but  in  a  tenement  the  social  atmosphere  is  more  cor- 
dial; you  are  expected  to  be  "neighbourly."  On  your 
arrival  you  are  the  new  boy  or  the  new  girl  at  school, 
or  the  new  member,  and  you  are  to  be  looked  over, 
and  to  give  an  account  of  yourself  and  to  be  reported 
upon;  so  that,  if  you  are  passed,  you  may  be  made 
free  of  the  tenement  society.  Ours  was  one  happy 
family.  We  were  as  self-contained  and  as  self-sup- 
porting as  Queen  Anne's  Mansions.  We  had  not  a 
restaurant,  but  we  had  a  tailor,  a  cobbler,  a  medical 
student,  a  char-lady  who  "did"  for  the  students  and 
did  odd  jobs  for  a  few  pence  for  harassed  mothers; 
a  good  cook  who  for  equally  few  pence  would  cook 
a  family  dinner,  a  newsboy,  a  Salvation  Army  lass 
for  spiritual  consolation  and  a  caretaker  who  made 
a  book  on  all  the  Important  races.  There  were  by- 
laws, of  course, — no  music  or  singing]  after  ten 
o'clock,  no  disorder  (a  most  elastic  term)  and  no 
nuisances.  But  we  didn't  need  those  rules;  give-and 
take  was  part  of  our  nature. 


116  THE  LONDON  SPY 

You  live  as  much  In  others'  rooms  as  in  your  own; 
and  if  it  should  become  known  that  any  tenant  is 
hard-hit  and  short  of  a  Sunday  dinner,  there's  always 
a  place  for  him  at  the  tables  of  those  who  are,  for  the 
moment,  flush.  And  there  are  delightful  Christmas 
parties  and  Bank  Holiday  parties;  and  much  chagrin 
if  you  go  to  Mrs.  Jones'  party  and  don't  drop  in  at 
Mrs.  Smith's  party.  To  each  floor  of  the  tenement 
is  given  a  balcony  space  where  washing  is  hung  dur- 
ing the  day,  where  the  old  ladies  sit  on  warm  after- 
noons, and  where  youth  lounges  in  the  evening. 

Very  pleasant  are  these  lounglngs  and  the  evening 
meetings  of  the  young  people.  You  stand  on  the 
fourth-floor  balcony  at  twilight,  between  the  dust 
and  the  stars,  looking  over  the  aching,  muttering  face 
of  East  London,  and  to  you  comes  young  Dolly, 
from  No.  14b,  to  admire  the  "view."  You  lean  to- 
gether across  the  iron  balustrade,  gazing  at  some- 
thing afar,  and,  somehow,  it's  the  most  natural  thing 
in  the  world  that  your  hand  should  find  hers  on  the 
railing,  and  that  she  should  return  your  squeeze,  and 
say  "Don't  be  silly — you  are  a  one!"  That  you 
should  pull  her  hair  for  her  sauclness,  and  that  she 
should  give  you  a  tender  push,  and  that  you  should 
somehow  fall  against  each  other,  and  remain  so,  si- 
lent and  still  under  the  lucid  night.  And  in  the 
morning,  if  Dolly  Is  on  the  balcony  brushing  her  hair, 
as  you  go  off  to  work,  isn't  it  natural,  in  that  brisk 


IN  THE  STREETS  OF  THE  SIMPLE     117 

light,  that  you  should  throw  up  a  bunch  of  violets, 
and  that  she  should  throw  you  .  .   . 

There  was  the  affair  of  Cissie  and  Dick  Went- 
worth. 

Cissie  lived  on  the  fourth  floor,  sharing  her  rooms 
with  a  work-mate.  Ivy.  Cissie  was  a  heart-smiter, 
proud  and  petulant.  Cissie  was  neat  and  slim,  with 
large  roguish  eyes,  and  held  much  grace  in  her  slen- 
der limbs.  Her  coloured  frocks  were  always  pretty 
and  her  little  hats  provocative.  There  was  joy  in 
her  movements,  in  the  swing  of  her  light  green  dress, 
in  the  set  of  her  soft  cotton  blouse,  and  in  the  won- 
derful rhythmic  fall  of  yellow  hair  from  head  to 
shoulders.  Cissie  and  Dick  met,  casually,  late  one 
August  night  on  the  balcony  seeking  cool  air.  An 
August  midnight  meeting  on  a  fourth-floor  balcony, 
far  above  the  hushed  streets,  is  sure  to  work  a  potent 
spell  upon  young  hearts.  You  seem  lifted  above  and 
withdrawn  from  the  world  of  stale  fact.  You  are 
gloriously  alone  in  the  city,  prince  and  princess  look- 
ing across  your  dominion;  and  although  only  the 
night  is  listening,  you  whisper  your  talk. 

Well,  Cissie  and  Dick  stayed  on  the  balcony  that 
night  till  two  o'clock,  as  you  knew  they  would;  and 
the  next  night  they  met  again  and  Cissie  spoke  her 
surprise. 

"Oh — you?    You  seem  to  like  this  view." 

Next  night  he  brought  two  chairs,  and  they  stayed 
longer,  and  went  to  bed  late  and  got  up  tired,  and 


118  THE  LONDON  SPY 

had  to  run  to  work  without  breakfast.  But  they 
didn't  grumble.  Then,  after  a  week  of  such  nights, 
when  London  lay  silent  and  prone  with  the  heat, 
jewelled  even  In  sleep,  Dick  took  both  her  hands  in 
his,  and  gently  drew  her  from  the  railings  back  to 
the  staircase.  She  hung  back  and  tried  to  withdraw 
her  hands.  He  held  them  tight,  and  pulled  her  close, 
and  murmured,  "Cissie!  Cissie!"  She  dragged  back 
with  all  her  weight.  He  pulled  her  to  the  corridor 
leading  to  his  room. 

"No !  No  !"  short  and  sharp.     "Dick— no !" 

"Oh— Cissie!" 

"No — we  mustn't!"  And  yet  she  spoke  not  too 
sharply,  because  the  pain  in  his  voice  hurt  her. 

"Dearest!" 

"No !  No.  Let  me  go  now.  It's  late.  We 
mustn't — not  to-night." 

But  she  smiled  then,  and  he  felt  her  smile  through 
the  darkness. 

"Not  ever,  dear?" 

"I  don't  know,  Dick.     Perhaps.   .   .  ." 

"Don't  you  care  for  me  at  all,  then?" 

"Oh,  I  do,  my  dear.  But  .  .  .  not  now.  .  .  . 
Perhaps   .   .   ." 

"Ah!     When?" 

"Let  me  go  first." 

He  dropped  her  hands,  and  she  turned  towards 
her  door.     "Fll  come  to  you,  Dick,  when — " 

"Yes,  when?" 


IN  THE  STREETS  OF  THE  SIMPLE     119 

"When  the  caretaker  gets  a  new  coat !  Ta-ta ! 
Happy  dreams!" 

And  away  she  flitted,  and  Dick  returned  to  the 
balcony  to  lean  over  London  and  to  swear  and  stamp 
and  sob.     Minx!    Hussy!    Faggot!     Little  devil! 

And  he  went  no  more  to  the  balcony  those  hot 
nights,  but  mooned  about  the  streets  and  drank  too 
much  beer,  and  went  savagely  to  bed.  Each  morn- 
ing, as  he  went  to  work,  he  gave  a  keen  but  pessimis- 
tic glance  at  the  caretaker's  apparel.  No  hope  there, 
he  felt,  for  many  months;  the  caretaker  always  wore 
his  raiment  to  rags.  Cissie,  he  knew,  meant  what 
she  said,  and  would  abide  by  It;  and  he  was  too 
proud  to  plead  for  extenuation.  Much  as  the  little 
golden  head  and  April  eyes  of  Cissie  had  entangled 
him,  he  had  no  patience  with  whims,  and  he  wanted 
to  tell  her  so,  curtly,  and  dismiss  her.  But  he 
couldn't.  That  smile  of  hers,  the  curious  little  up- 
ward twist  of  the  left  side  of  the  mouth,  had  bemused 
him,  and  wouldn't  let  him.  He  could  only  go  on 
wanting  her. 

Once  or  twice  he  passed  her  on  the  landing,  and 
she  shot  her  best  pert  grimace  at  him,  but  he  would 
not  stop.  He  went  straight  on,  and  even  when  she 
cried  lightly — "The  old  coat's  nearly  worn  out  now  !" 
he  wouldn't  turn  his  head.  If  he  had,  he  might  have 
seen  that  her  face  was  crimson  and  very  serious. 
But  next  day  they  passed  on  the  stairs,  so  closely 
that  he  had  to  brush  against  her;  and  when  he  had 


120  THE  LONDON  SPY 

gone  up  she  stood  on  the  ground  floor,  counting  his 
footsteps  and  clenching  her  hands.  There  were 
tears  in  her  eyes,  and  she  remained  still  some  min- 
utes; then  her  brow  cleared,  and  she  pattered  up- 
stairs like  a  golden  mouse. 

That  evening  Dick  mooned  about  the  streets,  more 
at  odds  with  himself  than  ever.  He  couldn't  even 
drink  beer.  The  close  contact  with  Cissie  on  the 
stairs,  just  the  whisper  of  her  frock  against  his 
fingers,  had  thrilled  him  anew  and  awakened  all  the 
passion  that  he  thought  he  had  damped  down.  Sick 
of  the  streets,  disgusted  with  himself,  and  disgusted 
with  home,  he  yet  turned  towards  home,  and  came 
slouching  into  the  yard  of  the  tenement.  And,  damn 
it,  there  was  Cissie  standing  right  where  he  must 
pass,  at  the  caretaker's  door,  and — aha ! — with 
many  old-age  nods  and  smiles  the  old  man  was  lavish- 
ing thanks  upon  Cissie  for  the  present  of  a  new  coat. 

A  splendid  misanthrope,  our  caretaker.  He  glories 
in  it,  as  fanatics  glory  in  mortification  of  the  flesh. 
He  has  a  round  heavy  face,  scarred  with  deep  lines 
at  each  side  of  the  nose,  a  drooping  mouth,  and  a 
beard  of  nondescript  colour,  which  is  never  trimmed 
or  combed.  His  gait  is  elephantine.  He  walks  to 
any  point  as  though  he  did  not  want  to  walk  to  that 
point.  Each  foot  is  set  down  slowly  and  hesitantly, 
and  its  fellow  follows  it  after  consideration.  He 
has  a  habit  of  looking  over  one  shoulder,  which  is, 


IN  THE  STREETS  OF  THE  SIMPLE     121 

as  It  were,  the  scowl  of  contempt  that  the  defeated 
give  to  the  world  they  cannot  challenge.  He  stands 
at  his  ground-floor  door  most  of  the  day,  leaning 
against  the  side-post,  hands  tucked  in  the  top  of  his 
trousers,  glooming  upon  his  boots,  or  Grr-Ing  at  the 
children  as  they  come  shouting  down  the  stairs. 

Tell  him  It's  a  fine  day —  "Ah,  but  it'll  be  cold  In 
the  evening."  Tell  him  old  Jackson  has  got  work 
at  last  after  six  weeks  out —  "Ah,  that  won't  last 
long,  though.  No  business  about.  They're  putting 
'em  off  everywhere."  Tell  him  you're  glad  to  see 
he's  looking  better — "Ah,  but  I  shall  get  it  again 
when  the  damp  weather  comes."  Tell,  him  that  the 
pubs  are  to  close  at  ten — "Grrr !  Taking  away  our 
liberties."  Tell  him  that  they're  to  keep  open  as- 
long  as  they  like — "Wod's  the  good  when  we  ain't 
got  no  money?" 

For  life  at  large  he  has  one  brief  blunt  litany — 
"I  dunno  wod  thingser  comin'  to." 

But  withal  a  happy  man,  if  serenity  of  mind  and 
settled  estate  be  happiness. 

But  even  he  expands  to  one  of  our  weddings. 
Our  weddings  are  affairs.  Everybody  is  invited, 
except  that  old  thing  on  the  third  floor  who  won't 
join  In  anything.  We  all  wear  our  Sunday  clothes, 
and  all  the  children  dress  in  their  best  and  crowd 
about  the  courtyard  and  the  staircases,  waiting  for 
the  great  moment.  Some  are  at  the  gate  spying  for 
the  first  approach  of  the  cabs;  others,  within,  bring 


122  THE  LONDON  SPY 

now  and  then  reports  of  progress.  "She's  dressed ! 
I  seen  'er.  Oo,  she  do  look  lovely.  And  'er  muv- 
ver's  crying,  they  say."  Ordinary  affairs  are  sus- 
pended; there  is  an  atmosphere  of  expectancy. 
Work  is  neglected,  and  even  the  most  hardened — 
like  the  caretaker — hang  about  to  pick  up  bits  of  gos- 
sip. "They  ought  to  be  'ere  now — I  'ope  nothing's 
'appened.  Mrs.  Minty'U  never  be  ready.  She  ain't 
done  'er  'air  yet.  Don't  seem  to  know  where  she  is, 
like — all  up  in  the  air."  Everybody  sends  a  present, 
if  only  something  towards  the  feast,  or  the  "lend" 
of  table  appointments  or  extra  chairs. 

And  when  they  come  back  from  the  church — oo 
my!  Then  the  yard  glitters  with  confetti  and  the 
kids  scream  and  the  old  'uns  yell,  and  the  principals 
have  to  fight  their  way  upstairs :  and  we  get  an  organ 
into  the  yard  to  make  music  under  the  windows  dur- 
ing the  feast  and  for  the  dancing  in  the  yard  that  al- 
ways follows.  The  bride,  warm-cheeked  and  prop- 
erly shy,  wears  lavender  and  white;  the  bridegroom, 
with  new  lounge  suit  and  white  buttonhole,  grins 
upon  all. 

The  sitting-room  and  kitchen  have  been  "turned 
out"  the  week  before.  The  table  is  covered  with 
the  best  cloth,  and  the  best  spoons  and  forks,  care- 
fully preserved  these  two  years,  in  an  old  bit  of 
wash-leather,  are  brought  out  from  their  nest,  and 
the  children  are  let  in  by  twos  and  threes  to  view 
the  table.     Then,  after  orders  and  disputes  as  to 


IN  THE  STREETS  OF  THE  SIMPLE     123 

where  the  guests  shall  sit,  and  a  sort  of  impromptu 
game  of  musical  chairs,  they  sit;  and  thereafter  is 
rattle  of  knives  and  forks,  clink  of  glasses  and  striv- 
ing voices.  The  front  door  is  left  open,  and  on 
the  staircase  stand  groups  of  well-wishers  looking 
on  and  crying  salutations.  Everybody  talks  at  once, 
and  looks  after  everybody  else,  pushing  dishes  about 
or  passing  them  over  the  heads  of  intervening  guests. 
"Sardines  coming  up,  Uncle — I  know  you  like 
'em." 

"Ah,  me  boy,  you  know  me — eh?" 
"Let  me  give  you  a  bit  o'  fat,  Auntie." 
"Get  those  clean  plates,  Emmie.     Come  on,  stir 
yesself." 

Then  follows  the  kids'  feast,  and  the  crumbs  from 
the  table  are  fairly  distributed  among  them.  Then 
we  adjourn  to  the  yard,  and  dance,  and  tell  stories, 
and  the  bottles  are  opened;  and  when  they  are  spent 
the  male  guests  retire  down  the  street  to  the  place 
at  the  corner,  and  come  back  and  bring  so  much 
zest  to  the  occasion,  that  the  police  interfere,  gently 
suggesting  that  we've  had  quite  enough  of  that,  and 
it's  time  to  ease  up.  Well,  well,  perhaps  it  is,  but, 
after  all  we  don't  get  married  everyday,  do  we? 
And  you  were  young  yourself  once.  So  we  ease  up, 
and  then  discover  that  the  bride  and  bridegroom 
have  disappeared;  and  the  rest  of  the  evening,  until 
past  midnight,  is  spent  in  looking-In  at  each  other's 
rooms  and  discussing  the  affair. 


124  THE  LONDON  SPY 

Yes,  altogether  It  went  off  very  well.  No  hitches 
— nobody  got  "nasty"  as  they  do  sometimes  on  these 
occasions — even  Uncle  Fred  found  nothing  to 
grumble  at — and  there  was  plenty  of  everything  for 
everybody.  Just  a  nice  quiet  affair.  Everybody 
happy  and  no  fuss.  Oh,  damn  these  rackety  wed- 
dings. I  can't  stand  'em.  And  I  must  say  that 
Mrs.  MInty  worked  jolly  hard  to  make  everybody 
feel  at  home — wodder  you  say? 

And  for  the  next  few  months,  affairs  are  dated 
from  "the  wedding" — "jus'  afore  Minty's  gel  got 
married" — "You  know — about  a  week  after  the 
Minty's  'do.'  " 

Annie,  our  Salvation  lady,  was  the  character  of  the 
building.  She  had  had  a  hard  tim.e  as  a  girl,  but 
she  carried  no  scars.  The  Salvation  Army  caught 
her  young  and  effaced  her  troubles.  At  seventeen 
she  worked  In  a  cork  factory  in  Hoxton,  and  her 
work  was  tedious  toil.  The  mean  round  of  her 
life  afforded  nothing  of  change,  adventure,  or  warm 
amenity.  It  was  a  round  of  factory,  home,  bed; 
factory,  home,  bed.  Beyond  the  crest  of  the  hill  of 
the  day  stretched  the  long  desert  of  evening.  Her 
work  she  could  face — if  not  with  active  interest,  at 
least  with  complacence.  It  was  the  evenings  that 
so  chilled  and  depressed  her. 

Home  meant  a  back-kitchen,  a  ponderous,  alco- 
holic father  and  a  querulous,  complaining  mother. 


IN  THE  STREETS  OF  THE  SIMPLE     125 

Her  father,  when  he  was  at  home,  didn't  talk;  he 
would  come  home  heavily,  go  awkwardly  to  his 
chair,  and  sit  there,  drowsing  and  '*  'mp"-Ing  to 
himself.  Her  mother's  conversational  repertory 
was  too  familiar.  Annie's  earliest  memories  of  her 
mother  were  linked  with  phrases.  She  could  tell 
the  day  and  the  occasion  from  the  phrase.  Mon- 
day's phrase,  repeated  from  morn  till  eve,  was  "I 
shall  never  get  through  with  this  washing  'fore  yer 
father  comes 'ome."  Wednesday:  "There  now.  It's 
early  closing,  and  we  ain't  got  no  tea."  Every 
Wednesday,  for  years  past,  her  mother  had  run  out 
of  tea.  Saturday:  "I  'ope  yer  father's  'ome  soon 
or  that  stew'll  be  done  to  rags."  Sunday:  "I  know 
that  meat's  tough."  And  every  day,  about  noon: 
"I  don't  seem  able  to  get  on  at  all  to-day." 

Annie  knew  always  what  her  mother  would  say 
upon  any  given  topic,  and  knew  that  It  was  not 
worth  saying.  But  she  had  to  sit  and  listen  to  It. 
For  reading  she  cared  nothing,  and  to  sitting  glumly 
at  home,  listening  to  the  solo  of  nothingness,  there 
was  no  alternative  but  a  saunter  along  the  Monkeys' 
Parade.  This  was  even  less  agreeable,  for  she 
had  never  been  able  to  get  a  boy — her  face  and 
figure  were  not  of  the  bold,  immediate  appeal  that 
attracts  youth — and  the  sight  of  other  girls  with 
boys  was  an  exasperation.  Never  did  her  ears  burn 
to  the  mutter  of  the  strollers — "Nice  bit,  ain't  she? 
Wouldn't   mind   'aving   'er   f'r   a   week-end — eh?" 


126  THE  LONDON  SPY 

She  belonged  to  her  environment,  yet  was  filled  with 
discontent.  Her  language  was  something  more  than 
coarse.  Her  habits  were  offensive.  Her  ways  were 
graceless  and  unbeguiling.  But  she  was  hungry  for 
change  and  adventure.  Had  a  boy  on  Jamaica-road 
seized  her,  she  v/ould  have  given  whatever  he  asked. 

But  one  Sunday  evening  she  stopped  at  a  street 
corner  to  snatch  some  solitary  amusement  from  a 
Salvation  Army  meeting.  A  young  woman,  of  in- 
determinate age,  was  speaking,  and  suddenly  Annie 
was  caught.  She  hardly  followed  the  message, 
which  was  crude  and  obvious,  delivered  in  a  pierc- 
ing street-corner  falsetto.  What  held  her  was  tHe 
colour  and  the  glory  and  the  fervour  of  the  woman's 
face;  and  when  the  eyes  rested  on  her,  and  flung 
her  a  share  of  their  ardour,  she  too  suffered  a  thrill 
of  exaltation. 

As  she  stood,  transfixed,  a  boy  pulled  her  hair. 
She  turned.  "What  a  face!"  The  boy  passed  on, 
and  Annie  turned  again  to  the  half-circle  of  tense 
eyes.  Abandoned  joy  was  here,  expressed  as  fluently 
as  Bank  Holiday  emotions  in  the  parks.  She  had 
never  been  able  to  join  the  Bank  Holiday  crowds — 
they  did  not  want  outsiders;  but  this  woman  seemed 
to  be  inviting  her  to  kick  her  heels  with  them  and 
have  a  good  time,  singing,  "Glory!  Glory!  Glory!" 
with  a  bang  of  the  drum  and  a  frivolous  clangour 
of  the  tambourines.  With  magnificent  abasement 
these   people   called   themselves   sinners,    and   sang^ 


IN  THE  STREETS  OF  THE  SIMPLE     127 

and  shouted  about  their  sinfulness,  and  laughed 
happily  in  speaking  of  the  Great  Friend  who  had 
redeemed  them.  They  praised  God  in  a  dozen  dif- 
ferent ways.  They  bawled.  They  bellowed.  They 
brayed.  They  piped.  They  chuckled.  They  yelped. 
They  intoned.  They  roared.  Happy,  happy  chil- 
dren of  sin!     Oh,  glory,  glory! 

When  the  meeting  broke  up  she  slid  shyly  to  the 
speaker.  The  woman  listened  to  her  halting  sen- 
tences, and  seemed  to  understand.  They  took  her  to 
the  Citadel.  She  was  questioned  closely  by  the 
captain,  and  was  told  to  call  again  during  the  week. 
She  called,  and  went  with  them  to  an  open-air  meet- 
ing. She  sang  "Glory,  Glory!"  and  thrilled  to  her 
own  voice.  But  this  was  not  enough.  She  pressed 
them  to  accept  her,  and  finally,  after  pointing  out  the 
hardships  that  she  might  have  to  face,  and  trying, 
by  searching  questions,  to  discover  whether  she  really 
desired  to  serve  Jesus  and  was  ready  to  suffer  in 
the  cause,  they  accepted  her. 

On  the  religious  point  she  dissembled,  and  told 
more  than  the  truth.  Of  religion  she  knew  only 
what  she  had  been  taught  at  school;  and  she  knew 
the  Gospels  only  as  she  knew  the  rivers  of  England 
and  the  points  of  the  Pennine  Chain.  Faith  and 
doubt  and  soul-searching  had  little  appeal  for  her. 
The  harassing  scramble  for  the  day's  bread,  the 
bruising  workaday  round,  left  little  energy  for  the 
spiritual  life.     She  wanted  to  join  them;  their  ob- 


128  THE  LONDON  SPY 

ject  hardly  interested  her.  Indeed,  she  could  not 
have  told  you  what  the  Salvation  Army  was  for;  she 
only  saw  it  as  a  happy  band  of  brothers  and  sisters, 
working  joyfully  for  the  Lord  as  others  worked,  less 
joyfully,  for  the  Borough  Council. 

But  with  all  her  heart  she  did  what  she  was  told 
to  do.  Here  at  last  was  adventure.  Working  for 
the  Lord  was  more  exciting  than  making  corks. 
Here  was  something  upon  which  she  could  direct 
her  store  of  energy  and  service  to  interesting  pur- 
pose; something  to  live  for;  a  career.  So  she  be- 
came a  probationer,  and  was  put  to  laborious  tasks 
— scrubbing,  washing,  selling  the  "War  Cry"  in  pub- 
lic-houses, going  out  at  night,  with  others,  to  lead 
broken  women  to  the  Shelter.  This,  to  test  the 
depth  of  her  enthusiasm. 

She  came  through  it.  Her  factory  mates  called 
"Sally!"  to  her  in  the  street;  but  she  was  done  with 
them.  And  slowly,  imperceptibly,  the  romance  and 
adventure  changed  into  a  quiet,  filling  rapture.  She 
awakened  to  the  faith  that  was  in  her  companions, 
and  it  grew  within  her.  Without  thought  or  self- 
searching,  she  came  to  share  their  complete  trust 
in  goodness,  and  to  find  a  daily  beauty  in  the  world 
and  a  delight  in  her  work.  She  rose  slowly  but 
steadily  from  the  ranks. 

She  is  now  a  leader  in  her  section.  She  might 
have  been  married  to  a  young  man  of  her  factory  and 
lived  a  fretful  housekeeping  life,  desiring  more  than 


IN  THE  STREETS  OF  THE  SIMPLE     129 

her  means  afforded.  She  might  have  gone  with  the 
boys,  and  be  now  on  the  streets.  She  might  be  toil- 
ing still  in  the  factory.  Instead,  though  she  is  still 
called  "Sally!"  she  has  everything  that  she  wants; 
she  has  achieved  complete  happiness.  Go  to  Great 
Eastern  Street  one  Sunday  night,  and  you  will  see 
in  her  face  something  that  few  of  us  possess.  .  .  . 

But  we  were  not  always  happy.  We  had  our  oc- 
casional "cases"  and  "bad  lots."  Not  so  very  bad, 
though.  I  had  much  sympathy  with  Mrs.  Green's 
Edie.  I'm  sure  she  wasn't  a  bad  girl  at  the  start; 
but  Edie  once  abstracted  a  blouse  from  a  stall  in 
Brick  Lane,  and  was  prosecuted.  The  magistrate 
didn't  call  it  kleptomania  or  "megrims."  Edie  had 
no  medical  expert  to  bring  testimony  that  she  was 
a  nervous  subject.  She  had  no  influential  friends, 
no  knights  and  bishops,  to  appear  In  court  on  her 
behalf  and  show  that  she  was  well-connected  and 
subject  to  aberrations,  and  had  lately  suffered  from 
headaches.  So  she  spent  five  years  in  Borstals  except 
for  a  few  days,  when  she  escaped,  and  was  found  in 
the  protection  of  a  man.  She  told  me  what  was  said 
to  her  on  her  recapture.  She  was  called  a  dirty, 
dirty  thing,  not  fit  to  mix  with  the  other  reforma- 
tory girls;  and  she  told  me  what  she  said  to  them. 
Something  like  this : 

"I  ain't,  then.     It's  you  that's  dirty.     'E's  bin  all 
right  to  me;  treated  me  like  a  'uman  being.     But 


130  THE  LONDON  SPY 

you — you  treat  me  like  a — like — a  bit  of — "  here 
followed  a  rough  and  ready  but  vivid  simile. 

She  did  not  come  home  when  she  was  released. 
A  post  in  "service"  was  found  for  her;  and  when 
she  did  come  home  she  had  left  "service."  She 
came  home  in  good  clothes,  and  looked  the  world  in 
the  face — with  a  wink.  She  and  the  housemaid 
had  got  together,  and  the  cook  had  noted  a  certain 
secret  alliance  between  them.  They  could  not  be 
allowed  to  stay  there  to  corrupt  the  girls  of  the  fam- 
ily; their  behaviour  was  reported  to  the  reforma- 
tory authorities.  But  Edie  and  her  friend  were  too 
quick  for  them.     They  bolted. 

The  housemaid  knew  a  "place,"  and  as  they  were 
both  bright  pleasant  girls  they  were  received  in  that 
"place" — certainly  no  worse  a  "place"  than  the  grim 
cold  building  that  had  held  her  for  five  years.  It 
was  a  "place"  where  only  "gentlemen"  of  good  fam- 
ily were  received;  and  the  lady-in-charge  impressed 
upon  Edie  the  urgent  necessity,  under  pain  of  im- 
mediate expulsion,  of  complete  secrecy  and  tact. 
Some  of  the  visitors  were  famous  men,  but  if  Edie 
recognised  them  from  their  portraits  in  the  paper 
she  was  not  to  know  them.  See?  And  some  of 
them  were — peculiar — see?  But  if  Edie  wanted  to 
get  on,  she  would  make  herself  agreeable  and  will- 
ing; the  more  she  pleased,  the  more  money  she  would 
get;  but  no  "nonsense"  would  be  tolerated  by  the 
"gentlemen."    No  intoxicated  men  were  admitted  to 


IN  THE  STREETS  OF  THE  SIMPLE     131 

that  house.  Its  reputation  for  respectability  was 
unassailable,  and  Edie  and  her  friend  must  live  up  to 
that. 

They  did.  And  though  Edie's  mother  wept  and 
implored,  and  moaned  at  the  life  of  her  daughter, 
Edie  was  unmoved.  She  had  had  her  five  years  of 
hell,  and  looked  no  farther  than  respite  from  its 
memories.  I  saw  her  the  other  day.  She  has  left 
the  house,  and  is  now  living  in  the  semi-married  state 
with  a  "gentleman"  who  "treats  me  like  a  Duchess, 
and  says  he  never  had  anybody  who  suited  him  as 
I  do.    I  don't  know  how  long  it'll  last." 

But  Edie's  no  fool;  she  has  looked  after  herself 
well,  and  has  money  in  the  bank.  And  she  has 
polished  herself,  and  toned  her  accent  and  speech 
to  the  requirements  of  politeness.  But  it's  her  eyes 
that  bother  you,  if  you  look  at  them  after  looking 
at  Annie's. 

A  more  humane  type  is  Mrs.  Dobson,  the  occas- 
ional charlady.  Life,  for  her,  is  a  joke,  and  her 
philosophic  attitude  is  expressed  in  profound  husky 
bursts  of  laughter.  If  a  man  slips  down  in  the  street 
— Haw-haw! — out  comes  that  laugh.  If  the  dinner 
goes  wrong  or  her  rheumatism  grips  her — haw-haw! 
— short  and  explosive.  Goodness  and  naughtiness, 
the  rent-collector  and  the  shooter-of-moons,  the 
drunkard  and  the  teetotaller — all  make  her  laugh. 
She  even  laughed  at  the  air  raids.  And  her  Sunday, 
instead  of  being  a  day  of  rest,  is  a  day  of  laughter 


132  THE  LONDON  SPY 

— at  her  own  troubles  and  at  other  people's.  She 
has  a  hoarse  voice  and  a  clear  spirit  attuned  to  the 
old  verities.  Her  laugh  gives  you  at  once  her  char- 
lacter,  for  laughs  are  as  expressive  as  faces  or  talk. 
There  is  the  ha-ha-ha  !  of  the  brainless,  healthy  man. 
There  is  the  shop-girl's  falsetto  her-her-her !  There 
is  the  deep  ugh-ugh-ugh!  of  the  flesh-loving  man. 
There  is  the  cackling  Heh-heh-heh !  of  the  cheerless 
man.  There  is  the  toneless  Teh-he-he  I  of  the  man 
without  a  soul;  and  there  is  the  gusty  haw-haw-haw  1 
of  great  spirits  like  Mrs.  Dobson. 

When  I  first  arrived  at  the  tenement,  I  was  asked 
how  I  was  "going  on"  about  cleaning.  "  'F  you 
want  anything  done,  Mrs.  Dobson'U  do  for  yeh." 
I  said:  "I  guess  I  can't  afford  that."  "Oh,  yes  you 
can.  She  won't  want  much.  Anything  yeh  like  to 
give  'er — that's  'er  style."  "Well,  whoi  is  Mrs. 
Dobson?"  "Oh,  'er  on  the  forf  floor.  You  know 
— stout  little  party,  rather  bad  on  'er  feet,  and  fond 
of 'er  little  drop."  "Oh, /know."  And  so  I  became 
one  more  charge  of  Mrs.  Dobson's. 

The  Duchess  she  was  called,  and  I  liked  her  much 
better  than  the  only  Duchess  I  have  met.  The  name 
came  to  her  from  early  days  when  she  kept  a  fruit 
and  vegetable  stall,  which  shamed  its  neighbouring 
stalls  by  its  polish,  neatness,  and  arrangement,  and 
by  the  personal  splck-and-spanness  of  Its  proprietor. 
She  was  an  excellent  cook — ^but  for  her  language 
many  a  select  household  would  have  thought  her  a 


IN  THE  STREETS  OF  THE  SIMPLE     133 

prize;  a  good  laundress,  a  doughty  scrubber,  a  con- 
fident nurse,  and  a  regular  "one"  with  babies.  And 
what  a  worker!  How  she  would  cut  about  up  and 
down  the  steep  stone  stairs  of  the  tenement,  rheu- 
matism and  all.  "If  work's  gotta  be  done,  get  on 
with  it.  Standing  looking  at  it  won't  do  it.  Walk 
into  it.  That's  what  I  do  and  alwis  'ave  'ad  to  do. 
I  dunno,  though  .  .  .  some  people  seem  to  get  away 
with  it.  Look  at  that  dam  fool  downstairs  I  do  for 
— ^young  'Artley,  the  medical.  'E  won't  work  if  'e 
can  get  out  of  it.  'Spose  we  was  all  like  that?  Nice 
sorta  world  it'd  be — eh?  And  yet  'e  seems  to  git  on. 
Haw-haw." 

I  don't  know  what  there  is  of  inspiration  in  the 
business  of  daily  house-helpers,  but  I  have  never  yet 
met  a  disagreeable  charlady.  All  seem  to  possess,  as 
a  blessed  recompense,  some  store  of  serenity,  some 
faculty  for  easy  outlook  upon  the  saddest  prospect. 
Mrs.  Dobson  has  had  two  children,  both  wrong  'uns. 
They  took  after  farver,  who  disappeared  some  years 
ago.  The  elder  boy,  after  doing  well  in  an  office, 
earning  £3  a  week — of  which  he  gave  his  mother 
eight  shillings  a  week — "I  don't  eat  more'n  eight 
shillings'  worth" — was  caught  with  his  hand  in  the 
safe,  and  is  now  in  Reading.  The  younger  got  no 
job  at  all,  nor  tried  for  one.  He  lounged  about  the 
streets,  and  lived  on  his  mother,  demanding  four 
meals  a  day,  and  when  these  were  not  to  be  had, 
assaulted  her  with   evil   words    and    nubbly    fists. 


134.  THE  LONDON  SPY 

Often  she  appeared  in  public  with  a  black  eye  or  dis- 
coloured cheek,  and  as  it  was  known  that  she  was 
not  living  with  her  husband,  she  was  at  great  trouble 
in  inventing  convincing  stories  about  them.  But 
at  last  the  wastrel  got  his  in  a  street-corner  fight. 

But  she  speaks  of  them  proudly,  as  wonders  of 
wickedness.  "That  George  of  mine — 'e  was  a  bit 
of  no-good,  if  yeh  like.  I  dunno  when  I  come  across 
such  a  rotter  as  'e  was.  'E  never  cared  fer  nobody. 
The  mess  'e  useter  make  of  'is  farver  when  they  'ad 


a  row.   .   .  ." 


When  there  is  no  work  to  be  had  she  sits  and 
chuckles  at  the  damnableness  of  things;  and  when 
she  is  summoned  to  a  job  she  receives  it  with  Falstaf- 
fian  laughter. 

"Please,  Missis  Dobson,  mumma's  in  bed  wiv  'er 
bad  leg,  and  can  you  come  up  and  do  our  dinner?" 

"Haw-haw!  Never  a  minute's  peace.  /  dunna 
'ow  you'd  all  go  on  wivout  me.  All  right,  ducky — ■ 
I'll  be  up  in  a  minute.  .  .  .  And  wipe  yer  nose — ■ 
snotty-face!     If  I  was  yer  mother.   .   .   ." 

She  is  the  willing  slave  of  the  tenement.  If  a 
difficult  or  disagreeable  task  is  to  be  done,  people 
think  at  once  of  her,  and  slide  it  to  her  shoulders. 
She  is  a  soft-mark,  easily  imposed  upon;  and  her  ac- 
quaintances know  It.  "Missis  Dobson'll  see  to  that." 
"I  wonder  if  yeh'd  mind.  Missis  Dobson.  You 
understand  these  things,  and  I'm  such  a  fool."  So 
always  she  is  on  her  feet,  doing  other  people's  shop- 


IN  THE  STREETS  OF  THE  SIMPLE     135 

ping,  taking  other  people's  children  to  the  doctor, 
minding  other  people's  babies,  and  buying  other 
people's  insurance  stamps;  and  in  return  they  give  her 
a  few  coppers  or  a  drink  or  a  meal,  and  lend  her 
their  novelettes.  "I  like  a  bit  o'  love — I  don't  want 
to  read  the  noospaper  'orrors." 

Often  she  has  a  shilling  on  the  big  races  with 
the  caretaker,  and  roars  with  laughter  and  gets 
mildly  drunk  when  she  backs  a  winner,  and  laughs 
out  rich  round  curses  when  she  loses.  "My  blasted 
'orses  seem  to  be  like  me — always  left  down  the 
course  and  sworn  at.  Haw-haw!"  Her  chief  joy 
in  life  is  her  cup  of  tea,  "me  old  cup  of  glory!" 
It  is  a  blessed  comforter  to  the  poor,  the  cup  of 
tea;  that  and  a  good  fire  change  the  whole  complex- 
ion of  things  from  drab  to  rosy.  In  the  morning, 
if  you  are  out  of  sorts,  it  bucks  you  up.  In  the  mid- 
dle of  washing-day  it  at  once  soothes  and  recreates 
energy.  At  the  end  of  washing-day  it  takes  the 
edge  off  exhaustion  and  warms  the  heart  through. 
In  the  afternoon  it  provides  a  blessed  space  of  rest 
and  refreshment;  and  at  all  hours  it  lightens  the 
oppressive  air,  disperses  worry,  packs  clouds  away, 
and  brings  new  hope  or  at  least  calm  acceptance.  In 
sorrow  or  rejoicing,  war  or  peace — "let's  make  a 
cup  o'  tea,  dearie !" 

So  that  she  has  her  tea,  Mrs.  Dobson  can  carry 
on.  Not  until  that  is  out  of  reach,  will  she  give  in. 
Through   many   foodless    days   and   fireless   winter 


136  THE  LONDON  SPY 

weeks,  people  would  urge  her  to  seek  relief — to  go 
on  the  parish  or  apply  to  the  church  for  coal  and 
groceries  tickets.  "What — me  'old  out  for  Charity? 
No  fear,  my  gel.  Not  me.  I  ain't  come  as  low  as 
that  yet.  I  got  some  self-respect  left.  As  long  as 
I  can  get  me  cup  o'  tea,  I  can  'old  out  till  things 
improve.  I  got  me  'ealth  and  strength,  thank  God, 
and  while  I  got  that  I  won't  be  in  nobody's  debt. 
I   ain't  going  truckhng  to  nobody." 

Granny  Simpson  was  just  such  another,  but  In  a 
softer  key.  She  never  stood  up  to  life.  She  ac- 
cepted, without  complaint  and  without  appreciation; 
and  she  is  now  in  "the  house."  But  her  afternoon 
out  is  a  Great  Adventure,  and  sometimes  she  may 
be  seen  down  our  street.  Her  whole  life  has  been 
bounded  by  narrow  streets,  lowering  roofs  and 
cramped  rooms.  Her  horizon  physically,  was  the 
other  side  of  the  street;  mentally,  to-morrow.  She 
dared  not  look  farther.  From  childhood  her  life  has 
been  without  distance  or  "views."  She  was  born  in 
Hoxton,  and  lived  and  slaved  in  Hoxton,  fighting 
always  for  the  present.  Even  her  rent  was  collected 
daily,  for  her  landlord  knew  how  hazardous  was 
to-morrow.  Her  life  was  flat,  without  much  sorrow 
or  much  joy;  just  a  dreary  struggle.  No  man  had 
chosen  her;  no  romance,  which  she  called  "nonsense,'* 
had  come  to  her.  Single  she  had  lived  and  toiled. 
She  had  little  to  give  in  the  way  of  friendship,  and 


IN  THE  STREETS  OF  THE  SIMPLE     137 

therefore  received  none,  for  she  wanted  that  vital 
something  that  inspires  interest  and  feeling.  When 
she  could  no  longer  hold  a  needle,  she  knew  that  it 
was  The  House.  Neighbours  commiserated  her  de- 
scent and  her  miserable  sentence,  but  she  saw  it 
otherwise.  She  was  beaten,  but  though  she  lost  her 
spirit,  she  did  not  lose  her  trust  in  the  essential 
goodness  of  things. 

"  'Taint  so  bad,  when  you  look  at  it  prop'ly.  We 
all  got  to  sink  our  pride  sometimes.  'Tany  rate, 
it'll  be  me  first  real  rest.  I  shan't  'ave  no  more 
worry  about  anything." 

She  is  a  bit  of  a  character  in  the  district,  and 
on  her  afternoon  out  receives  many  greetings.  Old 
age  and  open  misfortune  have  given  her  a  more  defi- 
nite character  and  loosened  her  early  reserve. 
People  smile  upon  her  now,  though  before  she  could 
not  command  a  nod. 

One  outing  is  much  like  another.  It  proceeds 
something  like  this.  She  potters  from  the  gates  of 
the  House,  in  its  evil  grey  uniform,  and  peers  up 
and  down  the  street.  The  sun  shows  a  pallid  face 
through  the  smoke,  and  falls  on  littered  streets, 
ragged  roofs,  unkempt  doorways,  and  greasy  shops. 
Its  rays  beat  up  the  accumulated  odours  of  cellar 
and  alley-way,  and,  to  most  noses,  the  air  is  bitter. 
But  Granny  sniffs  it,  and  approves.  ''Lovely  day 
again.  I  always  'ave  the  luck.  I  always  'ave  King's 
weather!" 


138  THE  LONDON  SPY 

A  dock-man,  passing,  stops.  "  'Ullo,  Gran.  Your 
day  orf  again?  I  wish  I  was  you.  'Ere — that'll  get 
you  a  drop  o'  something."    A  few  coins  pass. 

"Well,  I  never.  Now  if  that  ain't  kind.  Real 
kind.  Well,  well.  .  .  .  There's  a  lot  o'  good  in  the 
world,  if  you  only  knew  it.  Fourpence.  Now  with 
that  I  could  'ave  a  nice  tram-ride.  And  yet  a  little 
drop  o'  something'd  be  nice,  too.  It'd  'ave  to  be 
beer,  though." 

She  pads  away,  debating  the  matter — tram-ride 
or  a  little  drop  o'  something.  Then  a  young  girl, 
dressed  in  the  flashy  cast-offs  of  the  second-hand, 
observes  her. 

"Cheero,  Ma!  Orf  on  the  loose  again?  'Ere — 
I  done  a  good  bit  o'  business  last  night.  'Ere's  some- 
thing to  spend  at  the  Church  Bazaar — that'll  get 
you  a  glass  or  two." 

"Well,  now,  dearie,  if  that  ain't  kind.  You've 
got  a  'eart,  you  'ave." 

Granny  marches  on,  with  firmer  step  now.  "A 
nice  ride  and  a  drop  o'  something.  Well,  well.  .  .  . 
God  is  good,  bless  'Is  'eart,  if  we  only  knew." 

Then,  except  on  the  occasions  when  the  casual 
benefits  of  good  hearts  have  failed  her.  Granny 
follows  her  regular  programme.  She  boards  an 
East-bound  tram-car,  with  much  flighty  back-chat  to 
the  conductor,  and  takes  a  ticket  for  Wanstead 
Flats;  and  on  the  journey  looks  keenly  about  her, 
seeing  everything  and  enjoying  everything.     There 


IN  THE  STREETS  OF  THE  SIMPLE     139 

isn't  much  doing  that  escapes  her.  At  the  Flats 
she  leaves  the  car,  and  stands  for  some  moments, 
looking  upon  the  "view."  She  looks  upon  an  open 
space  of  withered  grass  and  hard,  bald  turf. 
The  turf  is  usually  littered  with  oddments  of  paper. 
Behind  the  broken  bushes  the  tram-cars  clatter,  and 
the  horizon  offers  ash-heaps  and  factories  sending 
smoke  across  the  brown  grass.  The  stunted  trees 
give  it  an  air  of  desolation.  Granny  stajids  and 
sniffs  and  sniffs. 

"Different  air  out  here  altogether.  Country  air, 
like.  And  what  a  fine  view.  Well,  God  is  good, 
bless  Ts  'eart,  letting  me  get  out  'ere.  And  if  I 
was  a  lady,  I'd  come  and  sit  out  'ere  every  day!" 


— V— 

IN  THE  SHOPS  AND  THE  MARKETS 

JOHNSON'S  remarks  upon  the  felicities  afforded 
by  a  good  inn  might  aptly  be  applied  to  good 
shops.  Shops  are  the  first  amenity  of  civilisation. 
They  are  a  promise  of  sociability.  They  give  news 
of  the  civil  bustle  of  men.  They  are  an  unwaning  de- 
light for  all,  young  and  old,  rich  and  poor;  for  you 
may  have  all  the  joy  of  their  windows  without  spend- 
ing a  penny.  Their  lights  are  more  alluring  and  more 
satisfying  than  the  lights  of  all  your  houses  of  en- 
tertainment, and  you  are  more  candidly  welcomed  at 
their  doors  than  at  the  doors  of  most  inns.  Note 
how  even  a  short  line  of  shops  stirs  the  languid 
prospect  of  a  suburban  street,  and  how  they  lighten 
the  tone  of  things  within  their  immediate  neighbour- 
hood. Within  the  orbit  of  shops  people  move  more 
briskly,  if  slowly,  than  in  the  long  streets  of  houses. 
The  sight  of  a  High  Street  of  bright  shops  after 
much  turning  in  side  streets  is  as  pleasing  and  In- 
vigorating as  the  sight  of  a  good  Inn  after  a  lonely 
country  walk.  You  feel  once  again  In  touch  with 
the  humanities  and  with  the  genial  swell  of  affairs. 
London  has  shops  for  all  tastes;  gigantic  shops, 
every-day  shops,  dainty  shops,  eccentric  shops,  whim- 

uo 


IN  THE  SHOPS  AND  THE  MARKETS    141 

sical  shops,  small  shops,  bazaars,  booths,  arcades, 
and  stalls.  Every  commodity  that  the  world  pro- 
duces has  Its  proper  shop  in  London.  There  are 
shops  for  pearls  and  platinums  an^d  ivory;  shops  for 
Eastern  silks  and  spices;  shops  for  Arctic  furs;  shops 
for  American  candy;  shops  for  East  Indian  coral; 
shops  for  Cingalese  fruits;  shops  for  South  Sea  bric' 
a-brac;  shops  (once  again)  for  German  delicatessen, 
for  Lapland  oils,  for  Serbian  embroidery,  for  Chinese 
musical  instruments  and  for  Japanese  underwear; 
and  shops  for  all  the  world's  foods  and  all  the 
world's  postage-stamps. 

The  great  Stores  are  imposing  pieces  and  lend 
pomp  to  the  streets  they  occupy,  but  my  fancy  pre- 
fers the  grace  and  dignity  of  the  smaller  shops. 
These  do  not  profess  the  large  manner.  They  are 
nice  In  their  architecture  and  individual  in  their 
methods.  They  retain  the  old  style,  when.  If  a  shop 
bore  the  name  of  Smith  or  Jones  over  the  door,  you 
could  go  In  and  ask  for  Mr.  Jones  or  Mr.  Smith, 
and  be  sure  of  finding  him.  Few  of  them  to-day  have 
personal  association  with  the  names  over  their  doors, 
but  style  and  atmosphere  remain.  I  think  of  the 
beautiful  shops  of  Fribourg  &  Treyer,  In  Haymar- 
ket,  of  Hatchard  and  Fortnum  &  Mason,  In  Picca- 
dilly, of  Dunhlll's,  In  Duke  Street,  of  the  bell  foun- 
dry in  Whitechapel  Road,  of  Buzzard's  In  Oxford 
Streef,  of  Quaritch's  in  Grafton  Street,  of  Ellis',  in 
Bond  Street,   of  the  old  chemist's  shop  in  Drury 


142  THE  LONDON  SPY 

Lane,  of  Francis  Downman's  wine-shop  in  Dean 
Street,  of  Birch's  in  Cornhill,  of  the  shops  under  the 
old  houses  at  Holborn  Bars,  and  of  various  shops  in 
Burlington  Arcade  and  round  about  Savile  row. 
All  of  them  are  shops  of  age  and  character — vintage 
shops. 

They  know  no  rough  business  of  buying  and  sell- 
ing. You  choose  or  order  what  you  want,  and  the 
assistants  are  delighted  to  give  you  their  time  and 
to  talk  with  you  about  your  purchases  and  about 
their  vocation.  It  is  no  mere  trade;  it  is  more  than 
a  profession;  and  the  assistants  are  of  the  priest- 
hood. At  Dunhill's,  pipes  are  sold  by  ceremony, 
and  the  assistants  are  elegantly  robed  and  handle 
the  pipes  with  gloved  hands.  There  is  a  story  told 
in  Duke  street  of  the  hasty  young  man  from  the 
provinces  blundering  into  Dunhill's. 

"Sir?" 

"I  want   a  pipe." 

The  priest  looked  perplexed  and  took  counsel  of 
himself.    "A  Pipe?     Pipe?" 

"Yes,  a  pipe.     You  know — briar." 

"Pipe,  sir?"  still  more  embarrassed.     "Pipe?" 

"Yes,  hang  it  all,  man.  A  pipe.  Quick — I've 
got  to  catch  a  train.     PIPE!" 

"Pipe?'M."  The  high  priest  was  called.  "Gen- 
tleman wants  a  pipe." 

"A  pipe?"      Senior  and  junior  stared  upon   the 


IN  THE  SHOPS  AND  THE  IVIARKETS    143 

young  man  with  vexed  brows.  "Afraid  I  don't 
quite — " 

"Dash  It  all,  don't  you  sell  pipes  here?  Well,  I 
want  a  pipe.  What  you  smoke.  One  of  your  pipes. 
A  Dunhill.   .   .  ." 

"O-o-o-oh!"  with  a  swift  clearing  of  face.  "O-o- 
oh,  a  Dunhill?  Now  I  understand,  sir.  But  you 
said  a  pipe!" 

In  Burlington  Arcade  there  is  similar  ceremony. 
You  do  not  buy  things  in  the  Arcade.  You  select 
and  order — half  a  dozen  pairs  of  boots,  two  dozen 
ties,  six  dozen  collars;  and,  if  you  are  a  born  fool, 
a  dressing-gown  at  fifty  pounds  and  a  dozen  lounge 
shirts  at  two  guineas  each.  And  when  you  buy  cig- 
arettes at  Fribourg  &  Treyer's  or  wine  at  Mr.  Down- 
man's,  the  business  rises  to  ritual. 

It  is  the  shops  of  London,  I  think,  that  give  the 
Cockney  child  his  first  thrill  of  rapture  In  his  city. 
Their  number,  their  brave  display,  and  their  multi- 
tudinous appeal  are  sure  breath-takers.  Rank  upon 
rank  they  stand  for  review,  each  with  Its  personal 
note,  each  offering  something  new  and  splendid, 
necessary  or  deeply  desirable.  Indeed,  a  walk 
through  the  shop-streets  Is  as  good  a  tonic  as  I  know; 
better  than  any  country  solitude.  Amid  the  happy 
parade  and  warm  tumults  of  the  streets  one  may 
escape  In  an  hour  from  all  gloom  and  Introspection; 
the  long  green  desert  of  the  country  only  Intensifies 
these    disorders.     Many    folk,    when    harassed,    or 


144  THE  LONDON  SPY 

run  down,  express  a  desire  to  "get  away  from  every- 
thing;" and  they  try  to  do  this  by  going  to  the 
country.  But  the  effectual  escape  is  not  from 
"things,"  but  from  yourself;  and  I  find  that  in  the 
fields  and  woods  the  most  looming  object  of  the 
landscape  is  oneself.  It  o'ertops  everything,  and 
colours  everything. 

It  Is  a  mistake,  I  think,  that  town  life  rubs  down 
the  bright  angles  of  character.  Truly  only  in  town 
are  people  their  whimsical  selves,  living,  freely  and 
fully,  their  own  lives.  Life  in  the  country  is  of 
necessity  communal;  one  must  fit  in  or  get  out;  and 
for  social  intercourse  one  is  limited  to  one's  imme- 
diate circle,  which  may  be  unsympathetic.  Choice  of 
society  or  solitude  is  not  to  be  had.  You  are  either 
bothered  by  dull  visitors  or  eyed  sideways  with  sul- 
len curiosity.  But  London  never  intrudes.  There 
one  may  find  whatever  sort  of  society  one  wishes, 
or  complete  solitude,  at  the  moment's  whim;  and  to 
all  who  are  suffering  from  dumps,  nerves,  megrims, 
vapours,  or  boredom,  I  would  say — Go  out  and  look 
at  the  shops.  Before  you  know  it,  your  alien  hu- 
mours will  be  dissipated. 

I  was  brought  up  in  the  heart  of  shop-land,  and 
my  earliest  memories  are  of  the  West  End  highways, 
and  of  darting,  keen-eyed,  from  one  shop-window  to 
another;  and  never  have  they  ceased  to  fascinate  me. 
I  can  still  stroll  for  miles  down  their  lines,  or  waste 
hours  within  their  doors,  without  a  moment  of  fa- 


IN  THE  SHOPS  AND  THE  MARKETS     145 

tigue.  At  every  pace  the  mind  Is  caught  and  occu- 
pied; kept  alert  but  not  unsettled.  Let  me  get  Into 
Fortnum  &  Mason's,  and  I  ask  no  better  entertain- 
ment. That  Is,  for  me,  the  most  alluring  of  all 
shops;  and  although  I'm  a  plain  man,  of  leg-of- 
mutton  tastes,  the  sight  of  their  windows  and  their 
garnished  delicacies  Is  Irresistible.  I  cannot  pass 
them.  I  must  go  In  and  survey  the  glazed  chickens 
and  the  noble  briskets,  the  glossy  boars'  heads,  the 
brown  Bath  chaps,  the  bewildering  assortment  of 
exotic  hors  d'ceiivres — cocks'  combs  in  jelly,  truf- 
fles from  Perlgord,  caviare  from  Astrachan,  an- 
chovies from  Scandinavia,  olives  from  the  South — 
in  jars  and  bottles,  their  vessels  fashioned  In  fan- 
tastic shape  for  their  delightful  purposes.  Each 
corner  of  the  shop  makes  Its  picture.  In  one,  the 
hams,  tongues,  fowls,  galantines,  sausages  and  sala- 
mis;  In  another  the  Yorkshire  pies.  Melton  Mow- 
brays,  game  pies,  Oxford  brawns,  jellies,  biscuits  and 
Oriental  flim-flams — curry  powders,  potted  char, 
Bombay  ducks,  poppadums,  ginger,  chutnees,  man- 
goes balachoung;  and,  in  another,  the  thousand  little 
tins,  jars,  packets  and  bottles  of  table  trifles,  each 
with  Its  native  style  and  decoration;  and.  If  you 
are  lucky,  through  It  all  will  march  the  thrilling- 
figure  of  a  white-robed  chef  bringing  from  below- 
some  lordly  dish  for  the  "cold"  table. 

I  say  It  Is  one  of  the  spectacles  of  London,  and 
it  always  draws  me  when  I  am  In  Piccadilly;  but 


146  THE  LONDON  SPY 

-there  were  days  when  it  would  have  driven  me  to 
fury.  Any  ham-and-beef  shop  had  that  effect  on 
me,  then.  You  may  have  noticed,  if  you  have  had 
hungry  days,  that  it's  the  ham-and-beef  shops  that 
always  exasperate.  Your  stomach  may  be  empty, 
and  your  limbs  faint,  but  you  can  pass  the  butcher, 
the  grocer,  the  baker,  the  fishmonger,  the  confec- 
tioner, even  restaurants  and  tea-shops  without  any 
spasms.  It's  the  ham-and-beef  shop,  with  its  genteel 
and  titillating  display  ready  to  the  eye,  that  makes 
you  look  round  for  that  'alf-brick.  It's  the  sight 
of  the  decked  and  garnished  dishes — the  ham  in 
cut  and  its  pink  and  cream  slices  and  its  pink  odour — 
that  makes  a  Communist  of  a  hungry  Tory. 

There  were  two  kinds  of  shops  then  that  inflicted 
sweet  torment  upon  me — ham-and-beef  shops  and 
bookshops.  Sometimes  I  was  able  to  enter  one  of 
them,  but  never  both  in  the  same  week.  Mostly  I 
could  only  look  and  satisfy  my  longings  with  a  sniff 
at  the  one  and  a  sort  of  second-hand  taste  of  the 
other.  How  I  would  gaze  upon  the  hams  and  the 
jellied  tongues!  And  how  I  would  pore  over  the 
tantalising  pages  of  the  Bookman  Christmas  Num- 
ber, which  told  me,  curtly,  of  delicious  treasures 
that  I  could  never  possess.  How  I  would  languish 
outside  the  windows  of  that  bookshop  in  Queen 
Street,  feeding  my  eyes  and  my  envy  with  sight  of 
precious  volumes  to  be  had  for  a  certain  number 
of  shillings  that  I  never  could  get  together.     I  never 


IN  THE  SHOPS  AND  THE  JVIARKETS     147 

dared  to  go  In,  save  when  I  went  on  the  business 
of  a  sixpenny  edition;  I  feared  that  they  would 
know  that  I  had  nothing  in  my  pocket,  and  had 
merely  come  to  handle,  to  sample,  to  snatch  a  few 
minutes'  delight  without  fee;  and  that  they  would 
kick  me  out.  I  don't  think  now  that  they  would 
have  done  that;  booksellers  are  humane  creatures; 
but  youth  sees  itself  too  sharply. 

For  the  Stores  I  care  little.  Though  admirable 
as  conveniences,  they  have  none  of  the  appeal  of 
the  shops,  nor  are  their  assistants  so  human  and 
agreeable  as  the  small-shop  assistant.  How  can. 
they  be — working  in  palaces?  Of  necessity  they 
acquire  something  of  the  marble-and-gilt  tone  of 
their  surroundings;  and  the  marmoreal  manner 
though  proper  to  church  sidesmen,  butlers,  and  toast- 
masters,  ill  becomes  the  coquetry  of  shopping. 
Then  I  always  have  the  feeling,  in  these  places,  that 
I'm  under  observation.  It  may  be  conscience,  but 
every  pillar  seems  to  shield  a  detective,  and  every 
other  shopper  has  the  detective  air.  It  is  very  pleas- 
ant to  stroll  through  courtyards  with  fountains  and 
mosaic  pavements,  to  walk  upstairs  on  velvet  pile,  to 
play  bo-peep  around  pillars  of  Carrara  marble,  to 
find,  on  wet  days,  lunch  and  telephone  and  ticket- 
office  and  cloakroom  under  one  roof;  but  that  isn't 
shopping.  One  goes  to  the  Stores  deliberately,  giv- 
ing a  day  or  half-day  to  it;  but  shopping  only  yields 
its  full  flavour  when  it  is  done  in  the  first  rush  of  a 


148  THE  LONDON  SPY 

whim  or  a  mood.  It  should  begin,  without  intent,  on 
a  sudden  glance  at  a  shop-window  and  the  fierce 
desire  to  spend  money,  and  should  cease  with  satiety 
or  empty  pockets.  The  journey  from  shop  to  shop 
whets  the  appetite,  but  the  sight  of  the  Stores,  where 
everything  lies  within  reach,  dissuades  rather  than 
excites.  There  is  no  fun  in  making  conquest  of  the 
willing. 

Another  thing — whether  by  accident  or  personal 
eccentricity,  I  never  can  get  what  I  want  in  these 
universal  provision  stores,  and  I  feel  that  the  assist- 
ant doesn't  really  care  whether  I  do  or  not.  The 
first  question  he  asks  you,  when  you  have  stated 
that  you  want  a  certain  article  is:  "What  sort?" 
Why  should  he  ask  me  that?  The  doctor  might 
just  as  well  ask  you  what  sort  of  medicine  you  would 
like,  or  a  lawyer  what  sort  of  action  you'd  like  to 
bring.  These  people  are  in  their  job  year  in  and  year 
out,  and  their  business  is  to  advise  the  customer, 
not  to  let  the  poor  fool  fuddle  himself  with  choos- 
ing. Your  ordinary  tailor  always  asks  you  what 
material  you'd  like  for  your  new  suit,  and  how  you'd 
like  it  cut.  Yet  he  is  supposed  to  be  a  specialist  In 
clothes,  giving  his  time  and  attention  to  the  study  of 
styles  and  fashions  and  clothes  generally.  It  is  for 
him  to  prescribe  for  me;  to  tell  me  how  I  ought  to 
dress;  not  to  let  me  go  out  in  a  broad-stripe,  high- 
coloured  cloth  that  can  only  fitly  be  worn  by  your 
six-foot,    broad-shouldered    man.     But    he    doesn't 


IN  THE  SHOPS  AND  THE  MARKETS    149 

care.  If  I  went  to  the  Stores  and  said  I  wanted  a 
hat,  and  picked  out  a  tall  silk  hat,  with  curly  brim, 
I  know  the  assistant  would  let  me  go  away  with  it. 

Now  your  bookseller  is  more  jealous  of  his  repu- 
tation. I  never  knew  a  London  bookseller  who 
would  let  his  customer  make  a  fool  of  himself  with 
his  books.  He  wouldn't  let  the  tired  business  man, 
who,  he  knew,  wanted  Mr.  Phillips  Oppenheim  or 
Mr.  David  Whitelaw,  go  away  with  Einstein  or 
the  Life  and  Letters  of  the  Bishop  of  Duddington. 
Nor  would  he  let  the  man  of  serious  bent,  who  al- 
ways wanted  something  solid,  go  out  with  a  summer- 
holiday  story  about  love  under  the  apple  trees. 
Not  he.  He  would  hate  himself  for  a  week  if  that 
happened, 

"Pardon  me,  sir.  No.  Not  that  one.  A  slight 
mistake,  I  think.  It  might  suit  the  lighter  build  of 
mind,  but  hardly  yours,  I  think.  Allow  me — let  me 
take  it.  Thank  you.  .  .  .  Now  this,  I  think — this 
is  perhaps  a  little  more  in  the  key.  An  excellent  little 
work  by  Professor  Thomas  Burke — published  last 
week — -'The  Inter-relation  of  Prunes  and  Prisms 


y  5> 


But  better  even  than  shops  or  stores  are  the  stalls 
of  the  street-markets.  They  lack  the  gloss  and  dig- 
nity and  brilliance  of  the  shops  but  they  have  an 
open-air  boldness  that  is  equally  alluring;  and  if 
you  want  to  spy  upon  the  Londoner  in  his  most  un- 
self-conscious  phases,  the  best  observation-posts  are 


150  THE  LONDON  SPY 

the  street  markets.  The  streets  themselves,  and  the 
theatres  and  the  parks  and  the  bars,  all  throw  back 
the  high  lights  of  humanity,  but  it  is  humanity  seek- 
ing recreation  and  a  little  conscious  of  itself.  In 
the  markets  we  have  people  on  business,  oblivious 
of  everything  but  the  occasion  of  the  moment;  and 
we  see  them  as  they  are,  in  the  habit  and  speech  of 
every  day,  fighting  the  battle  of  life  and  seeking  the 
elusive  something-for-nothing,  peering  here  and 
there  for  the  cheapest  meat  or  fish,  or  a  piece  of  oil- 
cloth for  the  kitchen,  or  a  parlour  table  or  trim- 
mings for  a  hat. 

"Going  to  market,"  is  a  phrase  that  is  seldom 
heard  among  the  respectable,  who  suppose  it  to  be 
a  phrase  descriptive  of  a  village  function.  For  their 
household  purchases  they  "go  shopping,"  but  those 
in  less  comfortable  circumstances  do  literally  "go 
to  market."  The  shops  are  not  for  them.  They 
find  their  value  in  those  narrow  streets  of  stalls  which 
evoke  memories  of  the  hot,  sounding  Bazaars  and 
Bonanzas  of  the  East. 

There  were  stalls  when  London  and  Westminster 
first  began  to  trade,  and  though  much  has  changed 
and  disappeared  in  the  passing  of  the  centuries,  the 
stalls  remain,  and  their  cries  remain.  Once  it  was 
"What  d'ye  lack,  my  masters,  what  d'ye  lack?" 
"Hot  codlings!"  "Buy  any  gingerbread !  Gilt  gin- 
gerbread!" "What  is't  you  buy — rattles,  drums, 
halberts,  horses,  fiddles  of  the  finest?"     "New  Bal- 


IN  THE  SHOPS  AND  THE  MARKETS    151 

lads!"  "Cherry  Ripe!"  "Ribs  of  beef!"  "Hot 
sheep's  feet!"  "Hot  peascod!"  "Pepper  and  saf- 
fron!" "Mack-er-el !"  "Fine  felt  hats  or  spec- 
tacles to  read!"  "Silks,  lawns,  and  Paris  thread!" 
"Rushes  green!"  To-day  It  Is  "Buy!  Buy!  Buy!" 
" 'Ere's  yer  fine  orange — all  sahnd  an'  juicy!" 
"Pick  'em  out  where  yeh  like  !"  "Comerlong,  ladies, 
this  way  fer  yer  fine  ripe  strawb'ry!"  Long  may 
they  continue  to  flourish  and  to  cry!  For  how 
much  more  joyous  it  is  to  shop  casually  and  exchange 
rough  banter  in  the  open  air  (though  the  air  be  none 
too  sweet)  than  in  the  elaborately  appointed  Em- 
porium or  Stores. 

The  war  brought  a  great  Increase  in  the  number 
of  street  markets,  and  we  have  lately  heard  much  out- 
cry from  the  Ill-used  shops  against  their  pert  com- 
petitors. Similar  outcry  w^as  made  in  Elizabeth's 
time  by  the  shop-keepers  against  stall-holders  as 
"unruly  people."  But  questions  of  prestige  and 
economics  apart,  I  am  all  for  the  stalls.  Selfridge's 
and  Harrods  are  delightful  places  in  which  to  spend 
a  dull  hour,  but,  as  I  have  said,  that  is  about  all  I 
do  spend  there.  For  my  lighter  purchases  I  go  to  the 
stalls.  Their  tradition  goes  farther  than  that  of 
the  shops ;  too,  they  have  more  warmth,  colour  and 
vitality.  The  stores-assistant,  even  at  his  best,  serves 
you  casually,  wearily,  as  though  his  business  were 
Indeed  a  business  and  a  sorry  one.  I  were  rather 
served  by  the  most  scrapegrace  pedlar  or  hawker  or 


152  THE  LONDON  SPY 

stall-holder  than  the  most  polished  shop-assistant; 
for  with  your  stall-holder  every  sale  is  an  occasion 
for  an  outburst,  a  hoop-la !  of  delight.  He  rejoices 
at  his  business,  and  tells  the  street  about  it,  where 
your  shop-keeper  goes  about  his  trading  darkly, 
with  hushed  voice,  as  though  fearful  lest  his  rival 
should  get  to  hear  about  it.  He  labours  in  secret 
while  the  stall-holder  shouts  to  the  sunshine  or  cries 
your  custom  under  flagrant  naphthas. 

Monk  and  I  lately  filled  a  morning  with  a  tour  of 
these  bazaars  beginning  at  Soho  and  finishing  at 
Roman  Road,  E.  Most  people,  when  they  think 
of  street  markets,  think  only  of  two — Caledonian 
Market  and  the  Sunday  morning  Market  of  Middle- 
sex Street.  But  neither  of  these  markets  has  now 
any  shred  of  character  left.  Too  much  press  pub- 
licity has  ruined  them.  Petticoat  Lane  years  ago 
became  a  show  place,  and  laid  itself  out  to  attract  the 
unsophisticated  sightseer,  as  the  New  York  Bowery 
did;  and  when,  during  the  war,  Mayfair  began  to 
visit  Caledonian  Market  in  its  Rolls-Royces,  one 
knew  that  it  was  discovered  and  finished. 

But  there  are  others,  equally  picturesque,  and 
full  of  rich  character  and  exclusive  customs.  All 
working-class  quarters,  and  most  suburbs  have,  of 
course,  their  Saturday  night  stall  markets,  but  I  am 
speaking  here  of  those  markets  that  persist  through 
the  week — in  Soho,  Seven  Dials,  Notting  Dale,  Far- 
ringdon  Road,  Brick  Lane,  and  in  Whitecross  Street 


IN  THE  SHOPS  AND  THE  MARKETS    153 

under  the  eccentric  spire  of  St,  Luke's.  Each  has 
its  distinguishing  "tone,"  each  its  own  type  of  shop- 
per and  hawker,  and  each  Its  physical  atmosphere 
(very  strong,  this). 

The  Berwick  Street  Market  is  chiefly  kept  by 
Jews,  but  Its  patrons  are  cosmopolitan — French, 
Swiss,  Italian,  Greek,  and  Suburban.  At  every  step 
one  breathes  garlic  and  wool,  and  receives  fragments 
of  talk  In  many  richly-coloured  dialects  of  Europe. 
Berwick  Street  serves  not  only  the  table  but  the 
Bottom  Drawer  as  well.  Here  are  "silk"  stockings 
at  a  shilling  or  so,  "pearl"  necklaces,  "Brussels"  lace, 
blouses,  jumpers,  dress  lengths,  shirts,  vests,  pants, 
misfit  trousers,  collars,  ties,  jostling  the  frolic  produce 
of  the  South,  pimentos,  olives,  Roquefort,  ravioli, 
•green  peppers,  truffles  of  Perigord,  ChiantI,  salsify, 
polenta,  Bologna  sausage,  capsicum,  salami.  Here 
In  the  morning  you  will  find  the  women  of  France, 
hatless,  doing  their  marche  as  at  home,  and  with 
them  the  knowing  ones  from  the  suburbs,  who  have 
learnt  the  hygienic  and  aesthetic  value  of  a  varied 
table.  People  move  here  with  that  alert  languour 
that  belongs  to  the  quarter.  Even  strangers,  mov- 
ing with  the  business-like  tread  of  the  Londoner, 
catch  something  of  Its  quality,  and  come  from  Ber- 
wick Street  with  a  lither  toe  and  a  more  soujjlant 
eye. 

Here  they  do  not  cry  their  wares;  they  wheedle 
you.     You  are  making  a  difficult  passage  through 


154  THE  LONDON  SPY 

Little  Pulteney  Street,  when  an  Oriental  whisper 
tickles  your  ear — "Lovely  thilk  tieth,  thir — on'y  a 
shilling  each !"  "Jutht  look  at  theth  thockth,  thir — 
all  thilk!"  But  you  are  not  pestered — the  remark 
Is  dropped  only  as  a  hint.  There  is  none  of  the 
buy-buy-buy  clamour  here.  Like  the  stores,  this 
market  has  its  regular  customers  and  it  only  makes 
a  bid  for  your  attention  in  the  manner  of  the  shop- 
walker. Even  the  great  corner  shop  for  fish  and 
poultry,  in  Rupert  Street,  festooned  with  fowls  and 
draped  with  flat  fish,  does  its  vast  business  with  little 
noise.  The  assistants  do  not,  as  in  East  End  Mar- 
kets, step  out  and  buttonhole  the  wayfarer  with  chal- 
lenges— "  'Ere — mister — you  never  see  a  finer  bird 
than  that,  /  know.  Just  'ave  a  feel  of  it — go  on.  I 
can  do  you  that  at  one-and-ten  a  pound."  Or  "Sort 
'em  out  where  yeh  like — all  sahnd  and  juicy!"  The 
scene  is  as  quietly  vivacious  as  the  marche  of  a 
French  country  town. 

I  wish  that  something  of  this  nonchalance  might 
be  conveyed  to  the  somewhat  pedestrian  affairs  of 
Hoxton  Street.  The  physical  air  here  is  heavy,  and 
few  breezes  come  to  lighten  it.  It  is  fed  with  the 
odours  of  whelks,  sheeps'  hearts,  trotters,  offal,  fish- 
and-chips,  vegetables  and  that  devitalising  smell  that 
belongs  to  very  second-hand  furniture.  But  food 
prevails,  for  Hoxton  Street's  main  business  is  to 
keep  body  and  soul  together,  and  the  rare  occasions 
of  silken  dalliance  are  sufliciently  served  by  the  "Old 


IN  THE  SHOPS  AND  THE  MARKETS    155 

Britt,"  now,  alas,  a  movie  palace,  and  a  few  pubs, 
of  which  I  like  most  "The  Bacchus."  Here  is  much 
study  for  the  philosopher.  Marketing  here  moves 
slowly,  anxiously.  It  is  not  a  matter  of  seeking 
the  best  at  the  lowest  price,  but  of  looking  for  what 
can  be  got  for  a  few  pence.  The  faces  are  knitted 
into  shapes  of  care,  and  the  eyes  are  tense,  and  the 
fingers  close  tightly  upon  the  purses,  as  the  women 
hover  around  each  stall,  fearful  of  paying  too  dearly 
for  even  a  makeshift  meal.  Nerves  are  on  edge, 
and  buyers  and  sellers  alike  are  petulant.  Each 
walks  on  a  narrow  ledge  above  disaster.  It  is  as 
quiet  as  the  Soho  market,  but  with  a  different  tone. 
Certainly  they  make  a  noise,  but  their  noise  is  less 
cheerful  than  Soho's  quiet.  It  has  a  bitter  note,  al- 
most a  wailing  in  it. 

Farther  eastward,  in  Chrisp  Street,  Poplar,  the 
tones  of  life  are  a  little  louder  and  fuller,  and  the 
wares  are  well  assorted.  They  do  well  here.  Many 
stalls  have  abandoned  the  old  rowdy  naphtha  flares 
and  are  fitted  with  electric  light.  Old  iron  and  old 
magazines  break  the  line  of  to-day's  rabbits  and  yes- 
terday's fish.  The  old  sweetstuff  stall  survives  here, 
with  its  home-made  "humbugs"  and  clove  rock  and 
bull's-eyes;  and  these  light  the  street  with  the  spirit 
of  childhood.  I  often  pity  the  children  of  Kensing- 
ton Gardens  with  their  silken  clothes  and  "latest 
children's  fashions"  and  well-upholstered  carriages 
and  sedate  nursemaids.    They  miss  so  much.     I  am 


156  THE  LONDON  SPY 

sure  they  would  rather  know  the  joy  of  the  toffee 
apple  or  the  rapture  of  the  weekly  penny,  and  the 
nervous  delight  of  placing  it  to  the  highest  advan- 
tage, than  move  among  the  emblems  of  prosperity. 
But  their  sheltered  lives  will  never  give  it.  They 
may,  in  later  life,  visit  these  markets,  but  they  will 
never  catch  their  true  temper.  They  may  find  some 
pleasure  in  them,  but  it  will  be  counterfeit  pleasure. 
The  doll  at  three-halfpence  (yes,  you  can  get  dolls 
for  three-halfpence),  the  parlour  game  at  twopence, 
the  box  of  coloured  crayons  at  three-halfpence,  the 
singing  bird  in  a  cage  at  twopence — they  will  never 
suffer  the  ecstasy  of  first  possession  of  these  wonders. 
One  must  be  a  child,  and  a  child  of  the  streets,  to 
taste  the  true  enjoyment  of  that  moment. 

Every  child  of  Mayfair  and  Kensington  who  saw 
the  Chaplin  picture,  "The  Kid,"  must  have  wished 
he  were  that  Kid,  as  every  poor  child  who  wanders 
down  Oxford  Street  wishes  that  he  had  a  rich  father. 
But  if  the  wish  of  the  poor  child  were  satisfied  he 
would  be  quickly  disappointed,  for  his  rich  fath<er 
could  not  give  him  the  glamorous  moments  that  his 
present  makeshift  life  affords.  For,  if  his  whims 
were  met,  he  would  lose  the  serious,  splendid  thrill 
of  laying  out  his  weekly  coin.  The  rich  child  buys 
his  toys  at  a  store  from  a  sleek  assistant,  who  is 
polite  to  him,  but  the  child  of  Poplar  can  make 
friends  with  his  toy-merchant,  who  is  never  polite 
and  frequently  profane. 


IN  THE  SHOPS  AND  THE  MARKETS    157 

There  is  a  warmth  among  the  stall-holders  of 
Chrisp  Street.  Sometimes,  as  when  Mrs.  Gubbins, 
who  has  been  studying  the  "proper  retail  prices"  in 
certain  daily  papers,  expresses  her  views  on  the  qual- 
ity of  the  potatoes.  It  becomes  heat.  But  it  is  all 
In  the  day's  work.  No-Offence-Given,  None-Taken, 
is  the  motto.  Many  of  the  stalls  anticipate  argu- 
ment by  displaying  gaily-devised  catchwords — "Live 
and  Let  Live"— "Quality  and  Civility"— "If  not 
Pleased  Tell  Us;  if  Pleased  Tell  Others"— "We 
Serve  Others  as  We  Would  Like  to  Be  Served." 
And  with  the  written  mottoes  goes  a  vociferous  com- 
ment on  the  goods  and  the  state  of  business;  man 
against  man,  stall  against  stall.  Their  cries  are  per- 
emptory rather  than  seducing.  The  voices  are  husky 
or  strident,  but  they  are  the  voice  of  Autolycus  cry- 
ing his  wares  In  the  poetry  of  the  streets. 

The  warmth  of  Chrisp  Street  is  not  perhaps  a 
very  seemly  warmth.  It  Is  not,  so  to  speak,  the  full, 
glittering  warmth  of  the  fireside,  but  rather  the 
rough  warmth  of  blankets;  and  if  your  skin  is  of  the 
roseleaf.  It  will  exacerbate  rather  than  soothe.  But 
these  markets  are  not  for  the  fair-skinned;  they 
are  for  those  who  lie  roughly,  and  mix  the  business 
of  marketing  with  the  entertainment  of  rich  and 
ready  banter,  of  clamorous  dispute  and  vehement 
accord. 

Here,  on  Saturday  nights,  and  In  most  of  the  East 
End  markets,  you  will  find  still,  among  the  substan- 


158  THE  LONDON  SPY 

tial  joints  and  rabbits  and  silks  and  furs,  the  stall 
of  the  colporteur,  laden  with  spiritual  uplift.     Its 
sides  are  hung  with  illuminated  Bible  texts,  and  it 
is  stocked  with  testaments,  concordances,  Spurgeon's 
Talks,  miscellaneous  tracts,  the  publications  of  the 
S.   P.   C.   K.,  missionary  magazines,    the    Friendly 
Gleaner,  Life  and  Work,  and  back  numbers  of  those 
too-too   pious   organs.    The   Cottager   and  Artisan 
and  the  British   Workman.     The   colporteur  is   a 
grave,  shy  character,  who  spends  most  of  his  time  in 
re-arranging  his  stall,  or,  if  he  catches  a  wandering 
eye,  pointing  silently  but  eloquently  to  one  of  his 
texts — "Consider  the  lilies  of  the  field  they  toil  not." 
For  ceremonial  marketing  you  may  try  the  lower 
end  of  Brick  Lane  on  the  verge  of  the  Russian  and 
Polish  quarter.     There  is  a  touch  of  irony  in  the 
situation  of  this  market.     It  lies  under  the  shadow 
of  that  gigantic  folly,  Columbia  Market,  which  was 
the  gift  of  Baroness  Burdett-Coutts,  who,  with  that 
lack  of  understanding  that  distinguishes  her  type, 
was  always  giving  the  poor  what  they  didn't  want. 
That  market  is  now  let  out  in  tenements,  and  Brick 
Lane  is  the  real  People's  Market.     It  is  a  mixed 
market,  and  serves  all  household  wants,  but  it  makes 
no  song  about  itself.     Something  of  the  settled  mel- 
ancholy of  the  tribes  of  Eastern  Europe  hangs  over 
it,  and  the  faces  of  the  shoppers  are  not  London 
faces.     Strange  foods  appear  on  the  stalls.     Smoked 
meats  are  in  demand,  and  curious  achievements  in 


IN  THE  SHOPS  AND  THE  MARKETS    159 

sausage  form  decorate  the  shop-windows.  Costume, 
too,  does  not  follow  London  or  Paris  models,  but 
moves  waywardly  about  alien  standards.  The  stall- 
holders use  little  voice.  They  do  not  cry.  They  do 
not  sing.  They  do  not  even  wheedle.  They  are 
passive.  They  stand  at  their  stalls,  like  beggars  at 
the  temple  gates,  awaiting  your  charity.  They  in- 
veigle with  the  eye  rather  than  summon,  and  invite 
by  their  pathos  rather  than  by  their  goods. 

Purchasing  here  is  not  the  blithe  brisk  business  of 
Lavender  Hill  or  Salmon  Lane,  whose  "Take  it  or 
leave  it,"  means  what  it  says;  it  partakes  of  the  leis- 
urely chicanery  of  the  Orient.  If  you  pay  the  price 
asked  you  are  set  down  for  a  discourteous  fool  and 
despised  accordingly.  In  this  market  the  attitude 
of  "Take  it  or  leave  it"  is  an  invitation  to  the  waltz 
— an  opening  for  the  intricate  interplay  of  bargain- 
ing; and  when,  after  long  minutes,  a  deadlock  is 
reached,  the  prospective  purchaser  will  go  away  and 
return  later  and  re-open  the  matter;  and  depart 
again,  and  again  return,  until  he  or  the  vendor  is 
exhausted.  How  a  man  prospers  who  conducts  his 
business  with  this  large  contempt  of  time  I  do  not 
know;  I  can  only  suppose  that  the  ultimate  profit 
amply  covers  him.  Certainly  he  seems  to  do  better 
than  the  abrupt  Cockney,  whose  slogan  is  "Small 
Profits,  Quick  Returns." 

A  happy  hunting-ground  for  those  who  find  amuse- 
ment in  the  foibles  of  their  fellows  is  afforded  by  the 


160  THE  LONDON  SPY 

mid-day  bazaar  of  Leather  Lane.  There  the  hungry 
office-boy  may  feed,  and  the  odd  minutes  of  the 
clerk's  luncheon-hour  may  be  most  pleasantly, 
though  unprofitably,  spent.  Nothing  is  here  of  solid 
value,  but  much  to  tempt  the  eye.  In  this  narrow 
lane  with  its  lasting  odour  of  vegetable  refuse,  el- 
derly professors  will  sell  you  the  Elixir  of  Life  at  a 
shilling  a  box;  shabby  young  men  will  sell  you  the 
Secret  of  Success  in  Business;  venerable  and  eloquent 
seniors  whose  equally  venerable  linen  is  eloquent 
of  a  mis-spent  youth,  will  give  you  (yes,  give  you) 
the  winner  for  the  Big  'Un  to-morrow.  They  are 
not  asking  for  money.  They  are  sportsmen,  and 
when  they've  got  a  good  thing,  they  like  to  share  it 
with  other  sportsmen.  One  might  think  that  they 
could  save  themselves  a  lot  of  trouble  by  shouting 
their  Good  Things  to  the  crowd  at  large;  but  that 
is  not  their  way.  Apparently  they  like  the  formality 
and  ritual  of  the  intimate'chat  with  the  True  Sports- 
man. They  like  to  deliver  their  good  news  in  sealed 
envelopes,  lest  it  get  into  profane  hands  that  would 
show  it  no  respect;  and  to  receive  from  their  bene- 
ficiaries some  token  of  his  True  Sporthood. 

Elsewhere,  you  will  find  brisk  young  gentlemen 
who  have  apparently  taken  a  course  of  lessons  in 
"How  to  Become  a  Convincing  Talker,"  and  now, 
in  tones  that  ring  with  sincerity,  offer  you  one  guinea 
fountain-pens  at  two-and-six,  or  gold  watches,  sleeve 
links,  solid  leather  wallets,  at  the  price  of  a  lunch. ' 


IN  THE  SHOPS  AND  THE  MARKETS    161 

They  do  good  business;  but  the  book-stalls,  the  hab- 
erdashery stalls,  and  the  broken-iron  stalls,  having 
little  excitement  to  offer  for  the  splendid  shilling 
suffer  by  this  insidious  competition.  People  would  al- 
ways rather  waste  their  money  on  an  empty  thrill 
or  a  humorous  swindle  than  spend  it  wisely  on  solid 
value.  No  right-minded  hawker  displays  ginger- 
bread without  gilt. 

Here  indeed  are  noise  and  talk  in  excess.  "Now 
gentermen,  I  can  see  that  you're  all  sportsmen  'ere, 
and  they're  the  men  I  like  to  talk  to.  Now  don't 
run  away — I  ain't  gointer  talk  about  meself — I  don't 
'ave  to.  Everybody  round  'ere  knows  me.  I'm  Og- 
trot,  the  jockey,  and  you  gentermen  that  remember 
the  Lincolnshire  of  '89  don't  need  no  more'n  that. 
I  retired  a  long  time  ago,  but  I  still  keep  in  touch. 
Now  listen — the  Leger  comes  on  in  a  week.  Very 
well.  Now  I'm  not  arstin'  fer  any  money:  all  I  arst 
Is  that  when  you  draw  your  money  you  deal  fair 
by  me.  Now  Is  that  straight  or  ain't  It?  .  .  .  If  you 
boys  don't  keep  back  I'll  clip  yer  ear-'oles.  .  .  ,, 
Now  listen —  .  .   . 

"These  boxes  of  choc'lits  what  I  'ave  'ere  are  sold 
In  the  shops  at  ten  shillings  a  box.  Ten  shillings, 
ladles.  But  owing  to  my  investing  several  thousand 
pounds  In  the  purchase  of  a  bankrup'  stock  I'm  offer- 
ing 'em  at — what? — at  two  shillings  the  box,  ladles. 
Ten  shilling  boxes  of  — 's  choc'lits,  at  two  shillings. 
Every  box  I  sell  means  a  dead  lorss  to  me,  but  I 


162  THE  LONDON  SPY 

ain't  worrying  about  that.  It  pays  me  by  making  me 
name  known.  You'll  find  me  'ere  every  day,  and  I 
know  that  when  you've  dealt  with  old  George  once 
you'll  come  back.  .  .  .  Pass  'em  up,  Fred.  'Nother 
one  over  there — lady  in  the  blue  'at.  ...  I  don't  sell 
duds,  ladies.  No  'alf-fiUed  boxes  'ere.  Examine 
every  one  of  'em.  No  dummies.  No  throwout 
samples.  No  dud  stuff  in  faked  boxes,  but  the  Real 
Thing.     Ten  Shillings  fer  two  shillings." 

And  between  whiles  you  will  certainly  have  your 
sleeve  plucked  by  the  gentleman  with  the  green  baize 
apron,  in  the  furniture-moving  line,  who  has  found 
a  gold  and  diamond  scarf-pin  in  the  van.  He  doesn't 
know  to  which  job  it  belonged,  and  if  he  takes  it  to 
the  police  they  may  think  he's  pinched  it,  him  being 
a  rough-looking  sort.  But  perhaps  you,  sir,  might 
find  it  worth  a  shilling  or  two.  He  doesn't  under- 
stand these  things,  but  it  looks  valuable,  and  he'd 
be  quite  ready  to  accept  a  trifle,  to  save  himself 
trouble. 

Then  the  gracious  cultivated  voice  of  the  white- 
haired  professor.  Between  finger  and  thumb  he 
holds  a  small  bottle. 

"...  and  I  may  say  that  for  fifteen  years,  from 
boyhood,  I  scarcely  ate  one  meal  without  discomfort. 
Dyspepsia  was  slowly  undermining  my  constitution. 
I  will  only  ask  you  to  use  the  evidence  of  your  eyes 
and  look  at  me  now.  And  how  was  I  cured  ?  Not  by 
doctors,  gentlemen.     And  not  by  patent  medicines. 


IN  THE  SHOPS  AND  THE  MARKETS    163 

But  by  Nature's  remedy.  Yes,  gentlemen,  I  am  not 
offering  you  here  any  product  of  the  chemist's  labor- 
atory. This  is  no  quack  nostrum,  sirs.  No  ! — What 
1  hold  in  my  hand  is  the  essence  of  what  the  poet  has 
called  the  kindly  fruits  of  the  earth.  Here  are  herbs, 
gentlemen,  the  roots  of  Mother  Nature.  I  have 
sold  these  remedies  in  this  district  for  fifteen  years, 
gentlemen;  and  wherever  I  go  once  I  can  go  again 
without  challenge  or  question.  One  shilling,  sir — 
thank  you — thank  you,  sir — thank  you!" 

But  in  the  domestic  markets — as  at  Kentish  Town 
and  East  Ham — there  is  no  opportunity  for  gilding; 
the  goods  must  stand  forth  naked  and  abashed.  The 
most  convincing  of  Convincing  Talkers  cannot  lend 
glamour  to  a  horsehair  sofa  with  a  six-inch  rent  in 
the  seat  or  give  grace  to  a  chest  of  drawers  lacking 
one  drawer  and  all  the  handles.  Pots  and  pans  and 
brooms  and  garden  tools  must  go  or  stay  on  their 
patent  utility.  These  markets  are  therefore  quieter 
than  any — not  from  the  temperament  of  the  shop- 
pers and  stall-holders,  or  from  the  spirit  of  the  place, 
but  because  vocal  efforts  of  publicity  and  challenge 
and  ornamentation  are  waste  of  time  and  breath. 
Window-dressing  is  vain.  A  bath  with  a  hole  in  it  is 
just  that  and  nothing  more.  It  has  no  "talking 
points."  It  sells  for  what  it  is,  and  there  is  no 
deep-debated  bargaining  in  the  sale.  Things  here 
are  what  they  seem.  "Persian"  rugs,  "Axminster" 
carpets,  "Benares"  ware,  deny  their  labels  on  their 


164i  THE  LONDOX  SPY 

face;  and  for  the  rest  there  Is  no  opportunity  for 
camouflage.  Popular  songs  of  ten  years  ago  and 
bric-a-brac  from  Birmingham  have  nothing  to  say  for 
themselves;   and  they  do  not  say  it. 

Among  the  Sunday  markets,  of  which  Middlesex 
Street  is  the  chief,  Club  Row  (Bethnal  Green)  Is 
unique.  This  is  the  cage-bird  and  feathered  animal 
market,  and  much  talk  and  knowing  glance  accom- 
panies the  business  deals.  Your  bird  fancier  is 
much  "wiser"  than  your  housewife.  He  does  not 
buy  a  bird  In  a  cage  or  a  pig  In  a  poke,  without  close 
scrutiny  and  chaffering.  Parrots,  parakeets,  canar- 
ies, finches — all  species  of  birds  are  offered  here,  and 
the  singing  competition  of  rival  aviaries  are  occas- 
ions for  much  invective  and  much  book-making.  The 
man  who  "fancies"  his  bird  materialises  his  fancy 
Into  terms  of  cash. 

But  the  best  days  of  Club  Row  are  gone.  It  Is 
falling  off,  like  Middlesex  Street  and  Caledonia  Mar- 
ket. Soon  It  will  belong  to  that  group  of  derelict 
markets  which  are  now  Markets  In  name  only — Co- 
lumbia Market  (Bethnal  Green),  Cumberland  Mar- 
ket (Kentish  Town),  Mortimer  Market  (Blooms- 
bury),  Shepherd's  Market  (Mayfair),  Clare  Mar- 
ket, Cloth  Fair.  But  although  vested  Interests  are 
moving  against  them,  I  hope  it  will  be  long  before 
the  street  markets  are  abolished. 

The  pavement  hawkers  have  already  received  no- 
tice that  while  old  licenses  will  be  renewed,  no  new 


IN  THE  SHOPS  AND  THE  IVIARKETS    165 

licenses  will  be  issued,  and  this  is  no  doubt  the  first 
flourish  of  the  campaign. 

Don't  we  all  remember  Ludgate  Hill  on  Christ- 
mas Eve,  when  the  penny-toy  peddlers  stood  shoul- 
der to  shoulder  on  the  South  Side  of  the  hill,  and 
grown-ups  and  children  packed  the  pavement  with 
delight;  and  the  squeaking  toys  squeaked,  and  the 
trumpets  trumped,  and  the  rattles  rattled,  and  the 
hawkers  hawked?  Well,  they  were  soon  moved  on 
at  the  wish  of  selfish  and  grasping  shopkeepers,  who 
have  no  time  for  the  "Hve  and  let  live"  spirit.  Lud- 
gate Hill  then  was  the  home  of  Santa  Claus,  and  a 
very  child's  heaven.  It  was  filled  with  the  warmth 
of  a  nursery  party — all  jolly  and  free  and  slapdash 
and  childish.  How  different  the  crowded,  fusty 
toy  bazaars  of  the  Stores,  and  their  solemn  atmos- 
phere, and  the  stolid  assistant  who  demonstrates, 
with  perceptible  lack  of  interest,  the  mechanical 
toys.  I  would  like  to  get  up  a  Children's  Crusade 
for  the  return  of  the  pedlar  and  the  perpetual  sur- 
vival of  the  street-market. 

They  make  an  appeal  which  shops  can  never 
make.  When  "all  goods  are  marked  in  plain  fig- 
ures," the  element  of  surprise  is  eliminated;  and  it  is 
just  this  possible  surprise  that  draws  the  crowds  to 
the  stalls.    That,  and  their  colour. 

For  at  twilight,  when  the  naphtha  flares  are  lit,  the 
lane  of  stalls  becomes  a  fair,  and  the  sedate  step  that 
is  fitting  to  the  shop  seems  foolishly  out  of  place. 


166  THE  LONDON  SPY 

One  wants  to  hop,  skip  or  jump  through  these  ar- 
cades of  exultant  light.  And  one  does.  The  rou- 
tine of  shopping  is  not  only  made  a  pleasure;  it  be- 
comes a  carnival;  and  the  wanderer,  like  myself, 
who  is  seldom  concerned  with  shopping,  may  here 
revel  like  Haroun  Alraschid,  in  Baghdad,  or  like 
de  Quincey  in  Little  Earl  Street,  Seven  Dials,  and 
see  wonders,  and  rub  shoulders  with  romance,  and 
come  very  close  to  the  common  heart  of  humanity. 


—VI— 

IN  THE  STREETS  OF  CYPRUS-ON- 

THAMES 

ATRIP  to  Cyprus  sounds  beguiling.  At  the 
suggestion  one  visualises  green  seas,  white 
coasts,  and  blue  moon-swept  hours  of  Cyprian  de- 
light. But  this  Cyprus  holds  little  of  enchantment. 
You  may  reach  it  by  omnibus  from  Piccadilly-Circus 
or  the  Strand;  and  when  you  have  reached  it  you 
will  take  the  next  omnibus  back. 

It  is  an  island  site — all  that  it  has  to  link  it  with 
the  other  Cyprus — in  a  district  where  the  slatternly 
fields  of  Essex  meet  the  draggled  tail  of  the  town. 
It  faces  the  edge  of  Albert  dock,  and  is  fretted  with 
cold  side-streets,  which  lead  nowhere.  The  names 
of  these  streets  carry  dull  echoes  of  the  noise  of  past 
battles  and  stress — Cameron-street,  Plevna-street, 
Beaconsfield-street,  Livingstone-street.  Each  of 
these  side-streets  drops  into  a  waste  of  ash-heap  and 
half-made  road.  The  houses  back  on  to  a  wide  but 
dismal  prospect.  It  is  spacious  and  airy,  but  the 
space  is  the  space  of  desolation,  and  the  air  is 
laden  with  odours.  Dust  drivels  in  the  air,  or  dances 
in  corybantic  circles;  black  dust  from  the  coal-sidings 
and  grey  grit  from  the  stones.     The  prospect  fades 

167 


168  THE  LONDON  SPY 

into  bald  corner-lots,  broken  fences,  gasometers,  and 
the  embankments  of  a  main  sewer.  The  houses  are 
low  and  cramped;  rabbit-hutches  in  brick;  and  the 
people  seem  to  be  of  their  surroundings,  of  scrap 
iron  and  abandoned  workings;  they  have  got  so  far 
with  a  struggle,  and  no  farther.  About  the  streets 
and  from  the  houses  shuffle  and  peer  pale  women, 
faded  by  long  toil,  with  little  appetite  for  laughter; 
and  pale  beautiful  children  run  from  school,  and 
their  keen-edged  laughter  is  like  the  ripple  of  Japa- 
nese wind-bells  in  a  railway  station. 

The  front  of  Cyprus  is  Cyprus-place,  by  the  edge 
of  the  Albert  dock,  which  bristles  with  scores  of 
cranes,  travelling  and  stationary,  dilapidated  sheds, 
and  sheaves  of  chimneys  tipped  with  flowers  of 
smoke.  Beyond  the  dock  you  may  see  from  your 
upper  window  the  scarred  slopes  of  Woolwich  and 
the  heights  of  Shooter's  Hill.  Alongside  the  dock 
runs  that  narrow  railway-track,  whose  station-names 
are  so  evocative — Galllons,  Manor-way,  Central, 
Tidal  Basin,  Custom*House.  These  names  add  bit- 
terness to  the  general  atmosphere.  "Cyprus"  it- 
self is  an  ironical  gibe.  Only  one  spot  here  is  aptly 
named — a  little  street  near  some  allotments,  named 
Savage-gardens. 

Cyprus-place  is  the  supply  depot  of  this  curious 
colony,  peopled  by  workers  from  the  docks  and  the 
great  gas-works.  Here  are  fly-blown  eating-houses, 
fly-blown   "general"   stores,   a   newspaper   shop,   a 


IN  STREETS  OF  CYPRUS-ON-THAMES   169 

sweetstuff  shop,  a  few  second-hand  dealers,  and  the 
Ferndale  Hotel,  the  only  "pub"  in  Cyprus. 

It  is  many  years  since  I  took  my  first  drink  at  the 
"Ferndale."  It  has  changed  little.  It  is  still  the  one 
bright  spot  in  Cyprus,  but  bright  only  by  Its  glum 
background.  It  is  kept  to-day  by  Joe  Lyons  (noth- 
ing to  do  with  tea-shops)  and  is  a  quiet,  well-con- 
ducted house.  There  you  may  sit,  under  warm  light, 
and  listen  to  the  night  wail  of  industry — the  squall- 
ing syren,  the  melancholy  hooter,  and  the  gruff  lull- 
aby of  the  shunting  engine;  and  with  them  comes  the 
smell  of  smoke  and  steam  and  dust.  Here  gather, 
from  the  bleak  corners  of  Cyprus,  heavy  dejected 
men,  some  in  the  garments  of  work,  some  spruced 
up  by  a  wash  and  a  change.  But  all  are  heavy. 
Talk  is  slow.  The  easy  interchange  of  gossip  be- 
comes here  only  grunts  and  nods.  They  are  tired 
with  the  day's  work,  and  they  must  be  up  early  to- 
morrow. "The  Early  Breakfast  House"  in  Beacons- 
field-street  opens  its  doors  when  most  of  London  is 
abed. 

The  rhythm  of  life  goes  brokenly  in  Cyprus,  for 
It  Is  Isolated  socially  as  well  as  geographically.  It  Is 
as  segregated  as  a  gipsy  encampment.  Its  Sunday 
afternoon  is  one  long  wail  of  discontent  that  knows 
no  solace.  The  cool  tones  of  the  piano  are  seldom 
heard.  More  fitting,  economically  and  assthetlcally, 
are  the  acid  notes  of  the  gramophone  and  the  glum 


170  THE  LONDON  SPY 

tones  of  the  harmonium,  which  nightly  embitter  the 
troubled  air  of  Cyprus,  the  Island  of  Delight! 

Yet  Cyprus  is  to  me  a  place  of  strange  colour,  for 
it  was  in  this  district  that  I  took  my  first  pipe  (really 
four  pipes)  of  chandoo.  It  was  the  result  of  a  cas- 
ual encounter  with  a  brown  Oriental  on  the  bridge 
crossing  the  dock.  He  was  an  old  man,  and  his 
parchment  face  looked  honest  and  engagingly 
whimsical.  We  stood  for  some  minutes,  exchang- 
ing broken  chit-chat,  when  he  asked  abruptly  if  I 
had  tasted  the  Great  Tobacco.  I  hadn't.  He  prom- 
ised me  plenty  amusement.  I  was  young  then,  and 
ardent  for  curious  and  cunning  experience.  Every- 
thing once.  I  believed  him,  and  went  with  him  to  a 
foul  cottage  in  a  side  street  about  Gallions. 

I  remember  that  evening  very  clearly. 

It  was  a  clear,  cold  night  of  March.  We  started 
from  Cyprus  at  chucking-out  time,  when  the  Fern- 
dale  was  urging  the  last  of  its  lingering  customers 
to  the  dark  pavement,  where  they  stood  in  clamant 
bunches.  Squalls  of  argument  and  hot  profanity 
broke  from  the  corner.  A  street  organ  drew  up 
and  made  dim  tintinnabulation  through  the  stress 
of  the  crowd  and  the  hooting  and  shrieking  of  the 
docks.  Young  girls  scampered  from  byways,  and 
an  ungainly  dance  began.  Their  hair  flew  grotes- 
quely about  them.  Their  gaping  boots  kicked  up 
the  March  mud.    On  the  fringe  of  the  circle  hovered 


IN  STREETS  OF  CYPRUS-ON-THAMES   171 

evil  shapes.     Through  their  towzled  hair  the  girls 
leered  back  at  the  faces  with  knowledgeable  eyes. 

Across  the  wastes  I  saw  the  lights  of  Beckton,  and 
down  side  streets  the  windows  of  the  little  homes. 
Past  long  lines  of  these  smiling  windows  I  walked 
with  my  brown  man;  through  streets  of  solitudes, 
broken  by  little  clusters  of  noctambulists  dispersing 
with  reluctant  feet  into  the  night;  past  the  oozing 
windows  of  fried-fish  bars;  Into  pools  of  light  and 
out  into  unlamped  darkness. 

At  last  we  halted,  and  he  took  my  hand  and  led 
me  through  the  open  door  of  a  cottage,  up  a  short 
flight  of  squeaky  stairs,  and  into  a  dark  room.  I 
stood  still  while  he  fiddled  about  and  found  matches 
and  candle.  The  room  reeked  with  acrid  fumes; 
yet  because  of  what  I  had  heard.  It  seemed  to  me 
that  this  sombre  odour  held  Invitation  to  delight. 
From  another  room,  or  next  door,  came  sounds  of 
querulous  nagging  in  a  woman's  voice,  with  a  ran- 
dom rumble  of  protest  from  a  man.  When  the 
light  came  I  looked  about  me.  I  cannot  tell  you 
what  the  room  was  like;  I  can  only  picture  it  as  I 
saw  it.  I  was  worked  up  by  the  little  adventure 
Itself,  and  still  more  by  the  wonder  of  the  Great 
Tobacco.  It  seemed  a  chilly  shrine.  It  was  the 
ordinary  tiny  bedroom  of  the  workman's  cottage, 
and  my  Immediate  impression  was  of  a  prevailing 
greyness.  The  floor  was  grey,  the  window-curtain 
was  grey,  the  ceiling  grey,  the  dirt  was  grey.     Even 


172  THE  LONDON  SPY 

the  attenuated  candle-light  held  a  quality  of  cold 
grey.  I  seemed  to  breathe  greyness.  On  the  floor 
lay  a  mattress.  A  couple  of  chairs,  a  table,  and  some 
odd  utensils  completed  the  furniture. 

My  brown  friend  went  to  a  small  cupboard  and 
brought  the  lay-out,  which  I  had  not  seen  before — 
the  pipe,  the  lamp,  the  tin  of  opium,  and  the  Instru- 
ment called  the  yen-hok.  He  lit  the  lamp,  took  a 
small  portion  of  stuff  from  the  tin,  and  held  It 
against  the  flame.  Smoke  came  from  It,  pungent  and 
bitter-sweet.  Then  he  kneaded  It  and  deposited  It 
in  the  pipe.  I  watched  him  closely.  The  business 
was  fascinating  to  me,  and  he  made  of  It  a  gracious 
ceremony.  Each  gesture  of  each  stage  seemed  to  be 
the  deft  and  right  gesture.  He  bent  to  It  and  gave 
it  significance,  for  In  the  opium  pipe  lies  the  radiant 
serenity  of  the  plains  of  the  heart  of  Asia  and  the 
melancholy  glory  of  Its  hills.  It  Is  In  this  business 
of  approach  that  your  opium-smoker  rises  above  the 
vicious  tricks  of  your  cocaine  slave.  He  stands  to 
the  sniffer  as  the  connoisseur  of  claret  to  the  dram- 
drinker.  The  cocaine-taker  wants  only  a  jag  and 
gets  It  in  the  easiest  and  quickest  way.  He  scamps 
the  slow  rites  and  ceremonies  of  the  pipe,  the  cook- 
ing and  kneading,  and  the  trimming  of  the  lamp. 
One  vulgar  sniff  and  his  business  is  done.  His  is 
a  vice  of  the  uncivilised,  and  has  no  following  in 
the  land  of  courtesy  and  grace  and  delicate  pomp. 
It  is  like  dining  off  concentrated  meat-tablets;  like 


IN  STREETS  OF  CYPRUS-ON-THAMES    173 

coming  down  to  breakfast  unshaven;  like  taking  exer- 
cise in  the  bath-room;  like  studying  English  literature 
in  Bits  of  the  Best  Books.  To  approach  these  things 
casually  is  profanity.  They  deserve  preparation  and 
care.  One  should  come  gently  and  properly  habited 
to  them;  not  rush  against  the  gates  with  a  school- 
boy's sniff. 

Three  more  "pills"  my  gentleman  worked  in  the 
same  way.  Then  he  handed  me  the  pipe,  pointed  to 
the  bed,  and  left  me.  The  apparatus  of  the  busi- 
ness was  as  interesting  as  the  preparation.  I  dallied 
with  the  pipe  and  inspected  it  well  before  using  it. 
It  was  a  amning  piece  of  work.  The  stem  was  of 
bamboo  overlaid  with  ivory.  The  mouthpiece  and 
bowl  were  of  porcelain.  Below  the  mouthpiece  was 
wreathed  a  cluster  of  blue  silk  tassels.  The  flat 
rim  of  the  bowl  was  chased  with  Chinese  ideographs. 
Up  the  stem  from  bowl  to  mouthpiece  marched  a 
procession  of  Chinese  water-carriers,  each  figure 
distinctive  in  pose  and  dress.  They  stood  out  from 
the  wood,  sharply  cut  and  sharply  realised.  It  was 
like  a  flash  of  China,  a  captured  moment  of  late 
afternoon  outside  the  gates  of  a  city  imposed  in  little 
upon  this  pipe  in  this  back-street  room  near  a  roar- 
ing London  railway.  I  could  see  the  swinging  jars 
and  the  rice-fields  and  the  floating  dust. 

Then  I  lay  down,  and  took  my  first  draw.  The 
shock  of  it  set  me  coughing  and  spluttering.  I 
hadn't  expected  that.     I  don't  know  what  I  had  ex- 


174  THE  LONDON  SPY 

pected,  but  I  hadn't  expected  anything  like  the  aroma 
of  mildewed  Irish  plug.  Still,  I  decided  to  per- 
severe; and  after  a  few  more  whiffs  I  found  the  trick 
of  it.  I  smoked  slowly  and  gently  until  the  first  pill 
was  spent;  and  then  suddenly  I  was  seized  with  wave 
after  wave  of  discomfort,  swimming  and  throbbing, 
which  lasted  some  minutes.  I  was  then  ready  and 
anxious  to  go  home;  and  yet,  when  it  had  passed, 
I  felt  that  I  had  been  done.  This  couldn't  be  all 
that  there  was  In  the  Great  Tobacco.  No;  I 
wouldn't  be  done.  I  believed  in  the  potency  of  the 
spirit  of  the  white  poppy,  and  I  wanted  my  money's 
worth.  I  took  the  second  pellet,  and  drew  upon  It 
with  a  sort  of  fearful  determination.  Soon  all  feel- 
ing of  nausea  passed.  A  deep  droning  began  In  my 
ears.  I  drowsed,  and  the  drowsiness  lapped  me 
and  soothed  me,  as  one  is  soothed  In  a  hot  bath  after 
a  day's  walking.  My  senses  purred.  I  had  achieved 
the  supreme  moment  of  the  white  poppy;  a  harmony 
of  mind  and  body;  a  sustained  awareness  of  peace 
and  power.  I  wanted  nothing;  I  possessed  all.  I 
could  write  the  perfect  sonnet.  I  could  compose 
the  great  music-drama.  I  could  lead  an  army  to  vic- 
tory. I  could  conquer  the  world  with  a  gesture.  I 
knew  I  could  do  these  things,  but  the  Ineffable  peace 
that  enwrapped  me  was  so  sweet,  so  potent,  that 
action  seemed  foolish  and  gross. 

I  took  the  third  pill.     When  that  was  done,  the 
pipe  slipped  from  me,  and  I  was  too  comfortable 


IN  STREETS  OF  CYPRUS-ON-THAMES   175 

to  reach  for  it.     I  lay  quiet;  my  eyes  fixed  on  the 
blue  flame  of  the  lamp.    After  a  while  I  noticed  that 
the  flame  was  growing  in  height  and  expanding  in 
radiance  until  it  seemed  a  monstrous  curved  fan,  en- 
veloping my  face.     It  came  nearer,  and  seemed  to 
close  in;  then  suddenly,  the  centre  split  into  rain- 
bow hues,  and  life  moved  within  it.     The  hues  re- 
solved  themselves   into   one — blue — and  I   was   in 
a  flowered  garden  where  a  blue  moon  threw  its  light 
upon  such  supernal  loveliness  that  my  lips  opened  to 
it.     In  the  forefront  of  the  garden  lay  a  wide  lawn, 
midmost  of  which  stood  a  gilded  temple  of  many 
turrets  and  windows,  and  from  turret  and  window 
looked  out  strange  figures  moving  lazy  arms.     (Why 
does  opium  always  evoke  pavilions  and  palaces?) 
Then,  it  seemed,  there  came  the  sudden  stroke  of 
a  gong,   whose  vibrations   spread  before   me   in   a 
thousand  ripples  of  coloured    light;    and,    at    the 
stroke,  windows  and  turrets  were  empty,  and  the  fig- 
ures poured  as  a  cascade  of  strange  shapes  to  the 
lawn  before   the   temple.      And   there  they   flowed 
and  gathered  themselves,  and  then  smiled  and  danced 
to  tunes  played  by    running    water;    and    strange 
odours   rose   from   the   grass   and   the   flower-beds, 
and  these  odours   floated  in  the   air   as  strings   of 
lighted  lanterns.     The  functions  of  the  senses  were 
interchanged.    Perfume  became  visible;  colour  could 
be  heard;  sound  could  be  felt. 

It  seemed  that  my  mind  divided  itself.     I  knew 


176  THE  LONDON  SPY 

that  I  was  looking  into  that  garden,  and  I  knew  that 
I  was  lying  on  my  back  on  a  hard  mattress  in  a  cot- 
tage of  a  brown  man  met  at  Cyprus.  By  this  very 
division  of  the  mind,  I  knew  that  the  Great  Tobacco 
was  working.  Then  my  mind  became  one,  and  I 
was  in  the  garden.  The  lissome  dancers  gathered 
about  me,  in  a  cloud  of  strange  shapes,  and  at  a 
closer  view,  I  saw  that  their  eyes  were  mournful 
with  too  much  beauty,  and  they  seemed  to  be  speak- 
ing; and  they  shone  so  clearly  as  to  be  alive  to  every 
sense  but  touch.  Sharper  and  sharper  grew  the  de- 
tail of  the  scene  against  the  blue  dusk.  The  con- 
tour of  a  cheek,  the  iris  of  an  eye,  the  beating  of  a 
pulse  of  these  trance  figures  leapt  clear  before  me, 
until  the  beauty  of  the  whole  was  dimmed  by  the 
magnificence  of  detail.  Colour  became  a  creature. 
A  scarlet  sash  about  a  waist  assumed  a  character  of 
itself,  and  a  foam  of  lace  about  a  dancer's  shoulders 
lived  apart  from  what  it  decked. 

There  were  voices,  multitudinous  dim  voices  and 
following  feet;  and  then  a  massive  figure,  robed  in 
a  costume  of  many  clashing  colours,  moved  from  the 
pavilion,  and  tumult  spread  about  the  garden,  and 
fear.  As  I  looked  upon  this  scene  of  panic,  I  saw 
my  thoughts  running  before  me  like  little  brooks, 
and  they  were  beaten  back  by  the  thoughts  that  ran 
from  the  massive  figure  that  had  broken  the  joy 
of  the  garden.     Then  the  garden  cleared,  and  as 


IN  STREETS  OF  CYPRUS-ON-THAMES   177 

it  cleared  my  heart  was  possessed  by  remembered 
legends  of  monstrous  midnights.   .   .   . 

But  one  figure  remained,  a  figure  that  looked 
with  strange  gravity  at  me,  appealingly,  and  not  at 
the  figure  before  the  pavilion,  and  moved  towards 
me;  the  figure  of  a  young  girl.  At  the  same  moment 
the  strange  figure  moved  towards  her,  and  as  he 
moved,  the  dancer  turned,  saw,  and  fled.  Through 
the  dark  thickets  of  the  garden  the  little  one  ran, 
hotly  followed;  and  as  I  watched  their  flight,  the 
light  of  the  garden  changed  softly  from  blue  to 
amber,  and  again  to  gold  and  again  to  a  pale  light 
that  was  not  of  sun  or  moon.  Through  lanes  of 
flowers  and  brakes  of  bush  the  little  one  led  him, 
and  though  the  monster  ran  as  none  ever  ran  he  could 
not  reach  her.  Down  mossy  paths  and  through  dim 
dells  she  ran.  About  her  hung  a  filmy  raiment  of 
a  green  that  is  known  to  the  rainbow.  Her  curls 
streamed  about  her  face.  Across  the  grass  her 
white  feet  fled  like  flashes  of  a  lantern;  and  now 
the  monster  would  be  upon  her,  and  now  with  a 
turn  she  would  be  far  from  him. 

And  then,  in  a  clearing  of  green  grass  spangled' 
with  flowers,  that  twinkled  with  changing  hues,  the 
light  grew  dim  and  chill  as  a  midwinter  dawn,  and 
she  stumbled  among  the  flowers,  and  trembled,  and 
fell.  .  .  .  And  as  she  fell,  there  came  a  crash  of 
drums  and  a  storm  of  brass  bugles.  Melancholy 
brown  darkness  closed  in  upon  the  garden.     The 


178  THE  LONDON  SPY 

darkness  shrank  and  shrank  into  Itself  until  it  be- 
came resolved  into  a  speck  of  pallid  blue  flame  in  a 
candle-lit  room;  and  I  lay  there  in  heartache  (as  well 
as  headache),  and  Gallions  seemed  haunted  by  the 
beauty  and  sorrow  of  an  unfinished  tale. 


—VII— 

IN  THE  STREETS  OF  GOOD 
COMPANY 

UPON  a  dull  morning  Monk  and  I  sat  round 
the  fire,  and  diverted  ourselves  with  making 
choice  of  London's  good  taverns.  It  seemed  a  tri- 
vial topic  of  the  moment,  yet  when  lunch  was  an- 
nounced we  had  covered  many  square  miles  of  Lon- 
don, and  were  still  going. 

An  inn  does  not  become  an  Inn  by  the  granting  of 
a  license;  it  grows  slowly.  It  has  its  first  period,  its 
second  period,  its  maturity,  and  its  decline.  It 
gathers  about  it  a  crowd,  and  the  aggregate  spirit  of 
that  crowd  gives  It  its  "note."  Let  one  member  of 
that  crowd  be  affronted  or  dishonoured,  and  the 
whole  crowd  forsake  that  house,  and  find  another 
and  there  re-create  their  circle;  and  the  old  house  is 
never  the  same.  It  becomes  arid,  spiritless.  Virtue 
Is  gone  out  of  it,  and  its  only  hope  Is  that  a  new 
crowd  will  gather  and  make  it  a  rendezvous.  We  all 
know  inns  of  this  kind — eclipsed  inns,  waiting  upon 
their  second  period.  They  are  sorry  places.  They 
are  like  hotel  bars  and  railway-station  bars  which 
are  not  inns,  but  mere  drinking-places. 

An  equally  important  factor  in  the  success  of  a 

179 


180  THE  LONDON  SPY 

bar  is  its  landlord.  You  cannot  have  a  good  bar 
without  good  company,  and  only  a  good  landlord 
can  attract  the  good  company.  A  man  of  character 
can  change  a  derelict  tavern,  which  all  men  shun,  into 
a  centre  of  bright  and  sober  intercourse;  and  the 
man  of  unkind  shape  might  take  over  the  most  pros- 
perous and  popular  bar  and  have  it  empty  within  a 
week. 

One  is  conscious,  at  first  entry,  of  the  spirit  of  a 
bar.  There  are  bars  where  the  stranger  is  welcomed, 
and  bars  where  he  is  shown  that  he  isn't  wanted; 
bars  where  the  assistants  are  courteous,  and  bars 
where  they  serve  you  without  looking  at  you.  The 
staff  derive  their  manner  from  the  landlord  and  the 
regular  crowd;  and  from  sharp-tempered  service 
you  may  deduce  evil  company.  The  bar  that  is  at- 
tended by  barmen  is  always  better  than  that  at- 
tended by  barmaids.  Your  barman  is  not  so  self- 
centred  as  the  girl,  and  does  not  demand  attention, 
or  indulge  his  whims  upon  you,  or  ignore  one  in  fa- 
vour of  another.  You  can  talk  to  him  as  man  to 
man,  but  around  the  barmaid  there  is  a  barbed-wire 
barricade  of  excessive  self-esteem,  and  you  often 
run  against  it  without  knowing  it. 

For  your  landlord — he  should  have  an  equable 
temper  and  a  pleasant  face  for  all.  He  should  have 
the  tact  and  discretion  of  the  London  policeman; 
the  dignity  of  the  merchant;  the  geniality  of  the 
man-about-town;  and  a  certain  professional  "some- 


IN  THE  STREETS  OF  GOOD  COMPANY   181 

thing"  which  cannot  be  put  into  words — a  touch  of 
manner  .that  marks  him  landlord  as  other  touches 
mark  a  man  solicitor  or  bishop. 

There  are  inns  in  central  London  for  all  moods, 
but  some  of  the  kindliest  houses  are  to  be  found  in 
the  near  suburbs — Shepherd's  Bush,  Hammersmith, 
Kensington,  Whitechapel,  Poplar,  Wapping,  Rat- 
cHff,  Highgate,  Islington.  Cavour's  bar,  in  Leices- 
ter Square  is  a  pleasant  little  room,  well  appointed 
for  an  occasional  gossip;  and  the  upstairs  room  at 
Henekey's  in  the  Strand,  is  the  best  place  I  know  for 
rumination.  You  may  sit  In  a  rush-bottomed  chair 
in  the  window  before  an  oak  table  and  a  pewter 
jug,  under  the  warmth  of  a  great  seventeenth-cen- 
tury-style fireplace,  and  look  through  diamond-paned 
windows  upon  the  Strand's  business,  and  be  as  tran- 
quil as  in  your  own  study.  For  company  there  are 
the  Bedford  Street  Bodega,  which  is  finding  itself 
again,  and  the  new  Rule's  which  I  have  described 
earlier;  De  Hem's  off  Shaftesbury  Avenue,  the  haunt 
of  film-actors;  the  "Man  in  the  Moon"  in  Vine 
Street,  where  real  detectives  gather  and  talk  of 
crime  as  merchants  talk  of  commodities :  "Not  much 
crime  about  just  now."  "No — very  slow,"  and  the 
basement  bar  of  Jones'  Leicester  Comer,  where 
gathers  daily  the  most  nondescript  and  roguish-look- 
ing crowd  in  London.  Another  favourite  of  mine  is 
Shereef's  Wine  Lodge  under  the  arches  of  Ludgate 
Hill,  where  you  may  order  "goblets"  of  champagne. 


182  THE  LONDON  SPY 

I  never  care  for  champagne,  and  I  don't  much  care 
for  Shereef's;  the  rumbhng  of  the  trains  worries 
conversation;  but  I  often  go  there  for  the  delight  of 
ordering  a  "goblet."  For  a  taste  of  High  Life  there 
are  the  "Rose  and  Crown"  by  Park  Lane,  "The 
Running  Footman"  in  Charles  Street  and  the 
"Grapes"  in  Shepherd  Market. 

Here  gentlemen's  gentlemen  and  other  indoor 
servants  are  to  be  seen,  and  sometimes  heard.  But 
as  a  class  they  are  aloof  and  taciturn,  and  keep  them- 
selves to  themselves.  There  are  bars  for  butlers, 
bars  for  footmen,  and  bars  for  chauffeurs.  Disorder 
is  unknown  here.  The  atmosphere  is  subdued;  con- 
versation is  murmured.  It  is  high  life  of  the  "Young 
Visiters"  sort.  The  topics  are  of  sober  import — 
whether  "ours"  are  going  to  the  Moors  this  year; 
whether  "he"  is  likely  to  obey  the  order  of  the  Court 
and  return  to  "her";  or  whether  "yours"  are  selling 
the  country  house.  The  butler  is  easily  recognised, 
but  the  footman  and  the  valet  are  changed  by  war- 
service.  They  are  no  longer  the  soft  things  they 
once  were.  They  are  become  fully  masculine,  and 
though  they  still  wear  a  sleek,  clothes-brush  air,  they 
carry  themselves  as  other  men,  and  are  not  labelled 
Yellowplush.  They  might  be  bank  clerks  or  shop 
assistants;  there  is  nothing  to  mark  them  from  their 
fellow-servants,  the  chauffeurs. 

But  the  butler  is  as  he  always  was.     Butlers  never 
change  and  never  develop.     I  think  they  are  born 


IN  THE  STREETS  OF  GOOD  COMPANY    183 

butlers.  A  man  does  not  seem  to  slide  into  the  grav- 
ity of  butlerdom  from  sprightly  first-footmanity. 
He  seems  to  have  been  always  a  butler;  to  have  been 
conceived  in  gravity  and  born  with  a  corkscrew  in 
his  hand.  He  regards  the  world  with  benignant 
severity.  He  is  the  polished  plebeian,  who  does 
with  a  gentlemanly  air  things  that  no  gentleman 
would  do.  He  is  like  a  critic;  he  knows  precisely 
how  every  trick  should  be  done,  but  he  cannot  do  it. 
He  is  a  master  of  Form,  without  understanding  it. 
He  takes  a  glass  of  beer  with  a  gesture  that  belongs 
to  old  brandy,  and  his  feeling  towards  his  footman 
is  crystallised  in  the  phrase :  "these  young  fellers." 
He  is  a  Petronlus  Arbiter  of  Taste,  and  speaks 
more  candidly  of  the  errors  and  failings  of  "ours" 
and  their  visitors  than  a  mother  does  of  other  peo- 
ple's children.  At  the  same  time,  he  borrows  much 
reflected  interest  from  them.  If  their  interest  is  the 
Turf,  he  is  an  authority  on  racing.  If  it  is  literature, 
he  can  talk  like  Mr.  Edmund  Gosse.  If  his  people 
are  City  people,  his  talk  Is  an  expansion  of  the  Stock 
Exchange  Daily  Official  List,  and  he  follows  fear- 
fully the  fluctuations  of  Mexican  Oils. 

I  once  had  occasional  acquaintance  with  an  ex- 
butler  who  frequented  the  "Running  Footman."  He 
had  the  true  butler  manner,  and  at  first  glance  you 
would  have  sworn  he  was  Lord  Curzon.  His  people 
had  been  musical,  and  he  possessed  all  their  infor- 
mation on  music  without  their  knowledge.     But  his 


184  THE  LONDON  SPY 

talk  was  to  me  a  malicious  delight.  Your  butler, 
you  see,  if  he  be  gifted  with  an  observant  eye,  has 
large  opportunities  for  critical  appreciation.  He  sees 
your  guests  more  clearly  and  swiftly  than  you.  He 
has  them  all  taped.  His  field  of  observation  affords 
him  a  wide  knowledge  of  men,  and  he  can  sketch  you 
this  or  that  guest  with  wondrous  fidelity.  In  the 
dining-room  men  are  off  their  guard,  and  if  the  but- 
ler is  a  true  butler,  nobody  is  conscious  of  his  pres- 
ence. But  he's  there,  and  that  downcast  eye  is  ever 
at  work,  noting  foibles  and  unconscious  revelations. 
And  my  butler  has  used  his  opportunities. 

"Always  entertaining,  they  was — ^three  nights  a 
week.  Funny  looking  people  they  used  to  have  too. 
Eccentric,  y'know.  But  so  interesting.  As  soon  as 
they  began  to  talk  you  forgot  how  funny-looking 
they  was — they  was  that  interesting.  There  was  a 
man  they  used  to  'ave  very  often.  I  couldn't  make 
'im  out  at  all.  Composer  they  said  'e  was,  but  you'd 
never  a-thought  it.  Looked  more  like  Eugene  Strat- 
ton.  Very  nice  fellow,  though,  and  ours  seemed  to 
think  quite  a  lot  of  'Im.  .  .  .  But  the  man  that 
gave  me  the  jumps  was  that  Sims  Reeves.  'Ow 
people  put  up  with  'im,  I  don't  know.  Enough  to 
drive  anybody  mad.  They'd  find  out  before  they  in- 
vited 'im  what  'e  fancied,  and  then  'er  ladyship 
would  arrange  a  nice  little  dinner  of  this  and  that — 
'Mr.  Sims  Reeves'  favourites' — and  then  either  'e 
didn't  turn  up  at  all,  or  else  'e'd  say  'e'd  prefer  a 


IN  THE  STREETS  OF  GOOD  COMPANY   185 

grilled  herring,  if  it  wasn't  any  trouble.  Trouble! 
Fat  lot  'e  cared  about  trouble.  I  tell  you,  young 
man,  I  used  to  fair  dread  the  nights  'e  was  coming. 
Up  and  down,  up  and  down,  all  the  bally  evening. 
Bell  going  all  the  time.  'Give  Mr.  Reeves  this'  or 
'Get  Mr.  Reeves  that.'  And  then  the  business  when 
'e  went  away — 'alf  a  dozen  silk  scarves  round  'is 
throat,  muffling  'im  up  'ere,  and  tying  'im  up  there — ■ 
and  then,  mind  you — not  a  word  of  thanks.  Not  so 
much  as  a  thrip'ny  bit.  .  .  .  But  Patti.  Now  there 
was  a  woman.  You  didn't  mind  taking  extra  trouble 
for  'er.  She  appreciated  it  so.  And  didn't  talk  to 
you  as  though  you  was  nothing,  but  just  like  one  man 
to  another.  I  always  see  that  she  was  well  looked 
after,  and  she  always  looked  after  me.  Always  a 
pleasant  word  when  she  was  going  away,  and  never 
less  than  half  a  sovereign.  And  there  was  an  old 
fellow  used  to  come,  and  play  the  fiddle.  And  'e 
could  play,  too.  You  may  'ave  'eard  of  'im.  A 
famous  man  'e  was.  Jarkim,  they  called  'im  or 
some  such  name.  'E  was  often  there,  and  got  to 
know  me.  'E  was  very  partial  to  our  old  brown 
sherry,  and  'e  always  used  to  give  me  an  eye,  as  much 
as  to  say  'You  know  what  I  like.'  .  .  .  Yes,  you  get 
all  sorts  to  deal  with,  young  man,  and  you'll  notice 
that  some  people  it's  a  real  pleasure  to  look  after, 
whether  they  give  you  anything  or  not,  while  with 
others,  even  if  they  drop  a  sovereign  in  your  hand, 
they  do  it  in  such  a  way  that  you  don't  care  whether 


186  THE  LONDON  SPY 

they're  looked  after  or  not.  .  .  .  Well,  here's  my 
very  best  respects !" 

Until  lately  there  was  an  excellent  cricket  centre  In 
St.  Martin's  Street,  where  many  publishers  live — 
the  "Horse  and  Dolphin"  kept  by  Len.  Braund,  once 
of  Somersetshire.  The  walls  of  the  saloon  held 
camera  records  and  cartoons  of  all  the  great  battles 
of  other  years,  and  Len.,  who  was  always  on  the 
reception  side  of  the  bar,  gathered  to  his  house 
many  of  the  young  amateurs  and  professionals  of 
to-day.  The  public-house,  as  a  business,  seems  to  at- 
tract the  ex-crlcketer.  I  recall  that  Richardson  kept 
one,  and  Brockwell  was  for  a  time  a  landlord;  and 
I  believe  others  were  In  the  trade.  Recollection  and 
anecdote  and  demonstrations  of  miraculous  strokes 
made  every  hour  of  Braund's  bar  noisy.  But  cricket- 
talk,  indeed,  any  sport-talk.  Is,  for  me,  an  Infliction, 
and  recollections  of  Lord's  and  the  Oval  less  interest- 
ing than  recollections  of  the  proceedings  of  the 
Hornsey  Borough  Council.  Your  sportsman,  when 
not  engaged  in^hls  sport.  Is  no  very  bright  company. 
I  prefer  the  more  catholic  houses.  In  whose  bars  all 
types  gather — like  the  "Clarendon""  at  Hammer- 
smith, the  "Turk's  Head"  by  the  waterside,  the 
"Town  of  Ramsgate,"  at  Wapping,  the  sixteenth- 
century  "Hoop  and  Grapes"  in  Whitechapel  High 
Street,  Blockey's  In  Jermyn  Street,  where  the  taxi- 
men  dine,  and  the  old  "GreeniGate,"  Barking  Road, 
where   the    ancient   and   beguiling   game   of   shove- 


IN  THE  STREETS  OF  GOOD  COMPANY   187 

ha'p'ny  may  be  played.  It  is  a  true  village  inn  on  a 
main  road  crowded  with  tram-cars,  'buses,  and  lor- 
ries. It  is  a  wooden  structure,  with  a  wide  cart 
sweep,  and  trestle-tables  outside,  and  there  on  fine 
days  the  carters  sit  with  their  drinl<:s  and  their  din- 
ners; a  little  Morland  study  set  in  the  thick  of  Lon- 
don. And  the  name  of  Morland  recalls  a  delightful 
suburban  house  where  he  was  known;  the  old  "Bull" 
at  Highgate. 

George  Morland !  The  very  name  is  a  nosegay  of 
old  cottage  flowers.  It  evokes  the  genial  curves  of 
the  English  countryside;  bridle  roads,  rough  farm- 
yard smells,  lamp-lit  interiors,  the  warm  confusion  of 
inns,  and  buxom,  apple-blossom  girls.  By  no  other 
artist  are  we  so  cordially  introduced  to  the  life  of 
our  country  roads,  for  no  other  artist  is  so  intensely 
English  and  so  sympathetic  to  the  common  people. 
There  were  other  artists  of  his  time  who  strove  to 
interpret  the  rustic  poor;  but  with  these  one  is  some- 
what aware  of  a  condescension,  of  the  fine  gentleman 
patting  the  coachman's  child  on  the  head.  Half  the 
charm  of  Morland's  work  lies  in  the  fact  that  he 
saw  his  subjects  on  the  level:  he  was»instinctively  of 
them. 

Born  in  circumstances  which  the  world  calls  "com- 
fortable," he  found  his  true  comfort  only  among  the 
rude  and  simple;  and  painted  the  subjects  that  he 
loved.  In  taverns,  stables,  farmyards,  he  was  at 
home,  and  there  his  ingenious«brush  discovered  and 


188  THE  LONDON  SPY 

presented  to  us  beauty  as  bright  as  any  that  drawing- 
rooms  have  held.  Elegance  and  tepid  culture  were 
not  for  him;  he  chose  the  plain,  blunt  man.  Natur- 
ally, in  a  period  when  class  distinctions  were  even 
more  sharply  marked  than  now,  this  choice  brought 
upon  him  much  mean  and  envious  detraction.  Each 
of  his  contemporaries  has  had  a  fling  at  him,  and 
even  his  biographers  find  it  hard  to  refrain  from 
censure.  Says  J.  T.  Smith,  author  of  "A  Book  for 
a  Rainy  Day" : 

"His  companions  were  jockeys,  ostlers  and  carters,  money- 
lenders and  gipsies,  yet  [I  like  this  "y^t"]  he  was* a  man  by 
no  means  wanting  in  sense  or  information ;  and  I  am  certain, 
had  he  embraced  the  friendship  of  those  persons  of  intellect 
and  sound  integrity  who  wished  to  serve  him,  he  might  have 
been  an  ornament  to  Societ}^" 

Well,  which  would  you  be — an  ornament  to  So- 
ciety or  George  Morland?  To  our  delight,  Mor- 
land  made  his  choice;  and  we  may  be  sure  that  he 
found  among  his  "low"  companions  unclouded  gra- 
ciousness  and  fine  feeling  in  as  large  measure  as 
could  be  found  in  those  others.  "Low"  company  Is 
not  for  the  mean-spirited;  they  fear  its  candours, 
and  fly  from  it  to  their  drawing-rooms  and  dissem- 
bling gestures.  To  its  large  qualities  of  heart  they 
are  insensible.  But  Morland  saw  and  knew,  and 
did  not  fear  or  despise.  He  saw  dogs,  horses,  chil- 
dren, and  drunkards  as  God  sees  them. 


IN  THE  STREETS  OF  GOOD  COMPANY    189 

A  born  roamer,  he  lived  In  many  spots  of  London 
and  country,  and  in  none  long;  and  wherever  he  went 
he  gathered  about  him  merry  company.  Himself 
cheerful,  he  generated  high  spirits  in  others.  Cer- 
tainly, many  of  his  companions  were  spongers,  prey- 
ing upon  him;  but  the  sponger  is  found  in  all  circles, 
and  the  warm-hearted  genius  of  Morland  would 
have  been  marked  down  for  prey  in  salons  as  in 
taverns. 

Unfortunately,  most  of  his  traceable  haunts  are 
now  demolished;  and  it  is,  therefore,  with  some- 
thing of  a  thrill  that  the  lover  of  Morland  discovers 
the  little  Highgate  tavern  that  knew  him  well,  and 
that  still  retains  much  of  his  gay-footed  spirit  and 
free-voiced  laughter.  At  "The  Bull,"  on  North 
Hill,  Highgate,  Morland  lived  for  some  months, 
having  sought  the  country  air  on  a  threat  of  illness. 
It  was  then,  no  doubt,  a  place  exactly  suited  to  his 
hungry  sociability;  for  North  Hill  in  those  days  was 
part  of  the  Great  North  Road,  clamorous  with  traf- 
fic of  horse  and  mall-coach  and  post-chaise;  and  it  is 
said  that  Morland  knew  every  coachman,  guard,  and 
postboy  on  the  route.  Often  he  would  board  a  coach 
at  "The  Bull"  and  accompany  it  well  Into  Hertford- 
shire (sketch  book  in  hand,  you  may  be  sure)  re- 
turning to  Highgate  by  the  up-mail. 

To-day  "The  Bull"  Is  much  as  it  was  when  he  was 
Its  guest.  Minor  structural  alterations  have  been 
made,  but  it  Is  still  a  wayside  inn.     It  stands  back 


190  THE  LONDON  SPY 

from  the  road,  inn-fashion,  fronted  by  a  small  gravel 
sweep.  A  flowered  porch  makes  the  entrance  to  the 
saloon.  It  is  a  low-pitched  building,  of  two  stories 
only,  the  upper  rooms  lighted  by  two  narrow  win- 
dows of  Georgian  type.  The  bars  are  small,  low- 
ceilinged,  and  snug.  They  exude  that  rich,  ripe  smell 
that  never  can  be  counterfeited.  It  is  compounded, 
I  think,  of  many  decades  of  smoke  and  human  kindli- 
ness and  the  outdoor  perfumes  of  years;  a  whiff  of 
the-pleasant  spirits  of  the  past,  promising  good  com- 
pany and  entertainment. 

In  its  public  bars  you  may  meet  to-day  descendants, 
I  fancy,  of  the  men  with  whom  Morland  drank. 
The  customers  of  "The  Bull"  still  have  about  them 
an  air  of  the  field  and  the  stable.  Still  you  may  wit- 
ness from  its  windows  such  sights  as  Morland  wit- 
nessed; smocked  drovers  from  Hertfordshire  worry- 
ing their  way  up  North  Hill  with  flocks  of  sheep  or 
glum-faced  cows,  and  halting  awhile  at  "The  Bull" 
if  the  hour  be  propitious.  Nay !  I  would  say  that  the 
spirit  of  Morland  still  influences  the  place;  for  about 
the  walls  of  the  bar  I  have  noticed  many  home-made 
bills,  in  red  and  blue  lettering,  announcing  hours  of 
opening,  beer  prices,  whisky  prices,  etc.;  and  when  I 
remarked  upon  the  neatness  of  the  execution,  I  was 
told  that  they  were  the  work  of  one  of  the  four-ale 
customers,  who  drew  payment  for  them  in  kind. 
Even  so  did  Morland — and  other  artists,  before  and 


IN  THE  STREETS  OF  GOOD  COMPANY    191 

since — paint  pictures  in  discharge  of  tavern  reckon- 
ings. 

That  Morland  could,  in  the  vulgar  phrase,  "shift 
it,"  is  shown  by  one  day's  drinking,  recorded,  item 
by  item,  in  his  diary: 

MORLAND'S  BUB  FOR  ONE  DAY 

Hollands  Gin  Porter 

Rum  and  Milk  Bottled  Porter 

CofFee  Punch 

Hollands  Porter 

Porter  Ale 

Shrub  Opium  and  Water 

Ale  Port  Wine  (at  supper) 

Hollands  and  Water  Gin  and  Water 

Port  Wine  and  Ginger  Shrub 

Bottled  Porter  Rum  (on  going  to  bed) 
Port  Wine  (at  dinner  and 
after) 

One  would  like  to  connect  this  tremendous  orgy 
with  the  country  air  of  "The  Bull,"  rather  than  with 
the  hot,  crowded  precincts  of  a  London  gin-house; 
but  the  fact  is,  it  was  celebrated  at  Paddington. 
Still,  "The  Bull"  to-day  maintains  something  of  the 
same  robust  manners,  so  far  as  the  times  allow.  A 
cutting  from  a  recent  issue  of  the  local  paper,  pasted 
up  in  the  saloon  bar,  is  testimony  of  this.  It  re- 
lates to  a  court  charge  of  drunkenness: 

Magistrate:     Any  explanation  to  offer? 

Prisoner:    I  had  two  glasses  of  old  Burton. 


192  THE  LONDON  SPY 

Magistrate:     Old  Burton?     Where  can  you  get 
old  Burton  nowadays  ? 

Prisoner:     You  can  get  a  good  drop  of  old  Bur- 
ton at  "The  Bull." 

Tom,  the  present  landlord  of  "The  Bull"  is  just 
such  a  fellow  as  Morland  would  have  loved :  cheer- 
ful, apt  in  business,  pleasingly  garrulous,  with  bright 
words  of  welcome  for  all  comers.     "Beer  to  your 
liking,  sir?  .   .   .  That's  the  style.     I  like  to  see  a 
man  enjoy  his  beer."     But  I  do  wish  he  would  take 
a  little  more  interest  in  Morland.    Again  and  again 
I  have  begged  him  to  introduce  into  his  bars  some 
little  touch  that  should  celebrate  Morland's  associa- 
tion with  the  house;  even  a  few  cheap  process  repro- 
ductions would  serve  as  a  gesture  of  recognition  of 
the   man   whose   memory   sent   many   distinguished 
callers  to  the  house;  among  them,  Cruikshank,  Mil- 
lais,  and  Landseer.     But  no;  the  saloon  is  still  deco- 
rated with  whisky  advertisements  and  clumsy  studies 
of  Dickens'  characters;  and  I  have  almost  given  up 
hope  of  exciting  him  on  the  subject.     It  is  not  as 
though   expense    or    trouble    were    involved;    every 
tinkering  little  picture-shop  keeps  Morland  reproduc- 
tions at  trifling  sums. 

Perhaps,  however,  the  printed  word  may  have 
more  effect  than  my  spoken  words;  and  maybe,  when 
Tom  reads  this  protest,  he  will  recognise  his  duty, 
and  will  walk  across  the  road  and  pay  his  homage  to 
the  genius  loci  before  it  is  too  late.    For  "The  Bull" 


IN  THE  STREETS  OF  GOOD  COMPANY    193 

may  not  long  remain  as  it  is.  Another  old  inn,  op- 
posite and  a  little  to  the  south  of  "The  Bull,"  known 
as  the  "Wrestlers,"  has  lately  been  reconstructed. 
Happily,  many  of  its  old  features  have  been  worked- 
in.  The  bar  parlour  has  been  little  altered,  and  the 
huge  Jacobean  fire-place,  with  its  leaning  mantel,  its 
six-gallon  kettle,  and  its  wide  chimney  have  been 
cleverly  retained  in  the  new  scheme.  This  is  good, 
but  it  is  an  isolated  case  of  intelligence,  for  we  have 
before  us  to-day  too  many  unhappy  witnesses  of  what 
happens  to  old  taverns  when  brewery  companies  re- 
construct them. 

"The  Bull"  is  not  the  only  good  and  cosy  house 
of  Highgate.  There  are  others — notably  "The  Gate 
House,"  "The  Flask,"  and  "The  Angel."  In  the 
days  when  Highgate  village  was  on  the  coach-road 
to  the  North  it  had  nineteen  inns,  and  even  to-day  it 
is  well  served.  Although  it  lies  within  the  London 
Postal  District  and  the  Metropolitan  Police  area,  it 
is  still  a  village.  It  stands  on  the  top  of  the  steep 
Highgate  Hill,  and  over  its  pavements  obtrude  the 
gnarled  rustic  porch  of  "The  Angel"  and  the  round- 
bellied  front  of  the  butcher's  shop.  When  the  tram- 
cars  are  not  visible  there  is  little  to  connect  it  with 
Suburbia;  rather,  one  thinks  of  a  Jane  Austen  town. 
The  high  kerb,  the  little  leaning  shops  with  their 
eighteenth-century  windows,  and  the  leisurely  shop- 
pers, belong  more  to  the  heart  of  the  shires  than  to 
London. 


194  THE  LONDON  SPY 

Happy  little  shops  they  are.  So  few  useful,  so 
many  admirable  things,  they  sell.  When  you  have 
counted  the  butchers  and  bakers  and  candle-stick 
makers,  there  remain  many  of  a  kind  found  In  no 
other  suburb.  There  is  the  picture  shop,  its  window 
filled  with  signed  proofs  and  graceful  etchings,  whose 
owner  maintains  the  village  note  by  signing  himself 
"your  servant."  There  is  the  Health  Food  Shop, 
which  assists  you,  for  a  few  pence,  to  a  simian  diet- 
ary. There  Is  The  Village  Book  Shop,  crowded  with 
first  editions,  editions-de-luxe,  and  the  best  modern 
volumes,  with  pleasing  talk  from  the  young  men 
whose  business  Is  their  delight.  There  is  the  tiny 
mend-all  shop  and  hospital  for  sick  crockery,  and 
there  are  frivolous  hat-shops  scattered  freely,  like 
urgent  flappers,  among  their  more  placid  fellows. 
And  there  was,  until  lately,  a  delightful  shop  where 
bronze  plaques  were  to  be  had,  kept  by  a  kindly 
philosopher,  friend  of  Henley  and  Stevenson  and  the 
giants  of  those  days,  who  spent  his  days  beating  epi- 
grams and  words  of  wisdom  into  bronze  and  brass. 

A  few  steps  down  the  Hill,  northward,  stands  a 
group  of  sober  Georgian  houses,  and  near  them  the 
peaceful  Pond  Square,  tacked  to  the  main  road  by 
modest  alleys  and  byways,  and  the  Grove — also 
Georgian — and  Waterlow  Park,  whence  by  day  one 
looks  into  London  as  a  grey-green  pool  dotted  with 
iron  reeds,  or  by  night  Into  an  effusion  of  purple 
brushed  with  luminous  yellow  and  spattered  with 


IN  THE  STREETS  OF  GOOD  COMPANY   195 

sharp  gold.  To  the  wooden  benches  outside  "The 
Flask,"  which,  village-like,  is  opposite  the  Church, 
come  to-day,  as  centuries  ago,  tired  folk  from  Lon- 
don on  Saturdays  and  Sundays,  their  exuberant  jests 
breaking  in  ineffectual  waves  against  the  age-old 
peace  that  clings  to  the  neighbouring  houses.  But 
on  other  days  one  may  sit  inside  or  outside  "The 
Flask,"  where  Coleridge  sat,  in  calm  contemplation, 
with  a  mind  at  ease.  The  serenity  and  village  calm 
of  Highgate  are,  paradoxically,  the  result  of  Prog- 
ress. In  the  high  tide  of  coaching,  the  press  of 
traffic  was  so  great  that  a  new  road  was  cut  from 
HoUoway  which  gave  less  strain  to  the  horses  and 
showed  a  saving  on  the  time-sheet.  So,  half-a-mile 
below  and  to  the  East,  the  new  world  clatters  and 
toots,  and  leaves  Highgate  Village  a  little  back- 
water, unruffled  by  its  passage. 

The  chief  inn  is  "The  Gate  House"  which  sits 
properly  at  the  head  of  the  Village,  like  a  jolly  host 
at  the  head  of  his  table.  This  house  was  recon- 
structed some  years  ago  to  the  model  of  its  original, 
and  though  the  model  was  not  so  closely  observed  as 
in  the  case  of  "The  Wrestlers,"  the  work  was  rea- 
sonably well  done,  and  one  can  still  identify  its  main 
saloon  with  the  main  saloon  in  Rowlandson's  picture 
of  the  house.  Its  wide  bay  windows  command  the 
exhilarating  sweep  of  North  Hill  and  they  once 
looked  dut  upon  a  constant  procession  of  coaches 
and  "chaises."    To-day  its  traffic  could  be  controlled 


196  THE  LONDON  SPY 

by  a  country  constable,  and  you  may  sit  In  the  bay- 
window  and  take  your  morning  draught  as  peaceably 
as  at  any  by-road  inn.  But  its  atmosphere  is  some- 
what cold.  It  wants  character.  It  has  no  "regulars," 
no  daily  intimate  gathering  of  men,  to  endue  it  with 
personality  and  quaint  differences. 

I  like  best,  of  the  Highgate  inns,  "The  Angel." 
There  indeed  are  cosiness  and  character.  Its  rustic 
porch  and  red  blinds  and  stained  glass  give  a  wel- 
come which  the  interior  confirms.  The  saloon  is  a 
small  room,  whose  ceiling  a  man  of  my  low  stature 
can  touch.  There  are  comfortable  lounges  and  a 
good  fire,  and  contemporary  Hogarth  prints  and  a 
dado  of  signed  photographs  of  the  theatrical  cele- 
brities of  the  'eighties,  whose  names  are  not  even 
names  to  this  generation.  There  is  a  small  billiards 
room  and  a  still  smaller  smoking-room;  and  behind 
the  bar  are  the  old  Highgate  Horns,  old  pistols, 
lanthorns,  and  black-jacks.  And  the  beer  is  good, 
my  boy,  and  the  company  not  without  interest,  hav- 
ing something  of  the  atmosphere  of  the  house  it- 
self. I  know  no  other  suburb  so  rich  in  old  inns  of 
the  true  type,  no  other  suburb  so  rich  in  sharp-fla- 
voured character  and  unsoftened  idiosyncrasy.  I 
care  not  whether  character  be  genial,  wise,  or  fool- 
ish, so  it  be  emphatic  In  tone  and  insistent.  In  this 
matter,  this  corner  of  Highgate  (not  the  Shep- 
herd's Hill  corner)  affords  great  joy.  The  village 
first  attracted  me  by  the  exteriors  of  its  old  Inns,  and 


IN  THE  STREETS  OF  GOOD  COMPANY    197 

their  encrusted  charm,  for  I  knew  that  within  their 
walls  I  should  find  ripe  character.  I  was  not  disap- 
pointed. These  places  gather  characters  about  them 
as  their  walls  and  roofs  gather  moss.  Men  become 
themselves  in  these  snuggeries,  which  afford  the  ad- 
vantages of  a  club  and  much  more  personal  freedom. 
They  expand.  They  assert.  They  contradict. 
They  shed  the  postures  and  opinions  worn  for  the 
outside  world,  and  stand  revealed. 

I  mentioned  The  Village  Book  Shop.  There's  a 
character  for  you  in  its  proprietor.  There  is  nothing 
cheap  about  this  shop,  and  nothing  cheap  in  it.  He 
should  have  been  an  artist:  he  has  a  fine  sense  of 
values.  You  need  look  for  no  bargains  there,  but  if 
you  want  the  right  edition  you  will  get  it  at  the  right 
price.  The  bargain  bookshop  Is  never  a  very  good 
bookshop,  for  the  bargain, — when  it  really  Is  a  bar- 
gain— Implies  Inattention  to  business  on  the  part  of 
the  proprietor,  which  Is  bad  for  him  and  for  his  cus- 
tomers. The  Village  Book  Shop  is  what  a  bookshop 
should  be — a  rendezvous,  a  pleasant  retreat  into 
which  one  may  enter  and  enjoy  bookish  chat.  If 
you  are  a  purchaser,  you  will  be  welcomed  by  the 
proprietor,  if  not — look  out  for  trouble.  He  has  lit- 
tle skill  In  dissimulation;  and  If  you  don't  buy  or  ask 
for  authors  for  whom  he  has  no  high  regard, 
he  will  probably  tell  you  point-blank  that  your  taste 
is  execrable,  and  that  you  ought  to  be  ashamed  of 
yourself.     A  regular  wasp  of  a  fellow,  sometimes. 


198  THE  LONDON  SPY 

I  have  seen  him  buzz  at  people,  and  was  once  buzzed 
at  myself  when  I  spent  two  hours  In  the  shop  with- 
out buying.  No  deference  is  shown  to  the  whims 
of  an  enquirer,  and  he  makes  no  attempt  to  woo 
or  wheedle  that  sensitive  person,  the  idle  gossiper. 

"What's  that?  Want  what?  First  editions  of 
Jack  Hogshead?  No;  of  course  I  haven't  got  any. 
This  is  a  Book  Shop.  Books.  That's  what  I  sell. 
Books — not  gum-and-scissors  mixtures  !" 

Then  there  is  the  Hermit  of  Highgate.  There 
was  in  the  fourteenth  century  a  Hermit  at  Highgate, 
a  holy  man,  who  by  Royal  Charter,  levied  toll  on  all 
passengers;  but  the  present  hermit  is  a  gardener, 
who,  In  summer,  labours  full  sixteen  hours  a  day. 
He  has  a  small  estate  on  the  east  side  of  Highgate 
Hill,  planted  with  fruit  trees  and  fruit  bushes,  and 
he  grows  vegetables  and  flowers.  On  the  estate  is  a 
battered  red-tiled  hut,  of  the  seventeenth  century.  It 
is  a  Robinson  Crusoe  hut.  The  planks  of  its  wooden 
walls  gape  widely,  and  there  are  great  clefts  in  the 
roofs  where  wind  and  rain  come  in.  This  is  his 
home,  and  there  he  lives,  Crusoe-fashion,  his  only 
companions  his  dogs,  chickens,  and  bees.  He  cares 
nothing  for  the  company  of  men.  He  prefers  trees 
and  flowers.  They  are  at  once  his  friends  and  his 
children,  and  he  talks  of  them  with  parental  pride. 
He  places  them  highest  In  the  scale  of  life.  He  rises 
with  the  sun  and  lies  down  with  the  sun.  He  sings 
in  the  local  choir.     And  he  lives  joyfully,  worship- 


IN  THE  STREETS  OF  GOOD  COMPANY   199 

ping  the  sky  and  his  family  of  trees  and  plants. 

"Y'know,  between  you  and  me,  I  don't  think  God 
thinks  a  great  deal  of  humanity.  If  you  were  a 
gardener,  you'd  see  that  flowers  and  trees  are  His 
favourites.  See  how  He  looks  after  them!  And 
He's  right,  too.    They're  worth  it." 

Good  character  is  also  to  be  found  among  the 
waterside  inns,  at  Wapping,  Ratcliff,  and  Narrow 
Street.  Good  places  these  for  Springtide  carousals, 
especially  "The  Turk's  Head,"  whose  window 
reaches  over  the  water  and  its  moving  life.  The 
beer  seems  to  drink  more  briskly  in  these  places  than 
in  other  streets.  The  sun  and  the  water  and  the 
moving  vessels — some  outward  bound,  trimly,  to 
distant  seas;  others  lumbering  home  with  the  gla- 
mour of  large  adventure  about  them — and  the  sea- 
talk  at  the  bar  give  a  tang  to  the  bitter  and  a  smart 
touch  to  the  thirst.  There  is  a  joyful  house  in  West 
India  Dock  Road,  where  you  turn  for  the  Isle  of 
Dogs.  Many  rich  evenings  did  I  spend  there  in  my 
youth-time.  It  has  a  large  saloon-bar,  loaded  with 
trophies  from  afar — strange  birds  from  the  Pacific 
hang,  wings  extended,  from  the  ceiling,  cunning 
weapons  decorate  the  walls,  and  under  glass  cases 
are  Buddhas,  ivory  statuettes,  silks,  and  other  rare 
oddments. 

At  nine  o'clock  most  evenings  it  is  packed  with  a 
finely  mixed  company,  chiefly  seamen,  white  and 
black,  and  their  Fannies;  and  it  bubbles  with  talk  and 


200  THE  LONDON  SPY 

swims  with  smoke.  Hot  talk  it  is,  too,  suited  to  the 
somewhat  makeshift  appointments  of  the  place.  Its 
fixtures  are  faded  and  tarnished,  and  I  imagine  that 
the  reason  for  the  neglect  is  the  keen  press  of  cus- 
tom, which  leaves  the  staff  never  a  minute  for  con- 
sideration of  repairs  and  renewal.  But  those  things 
don't  matter.  The  company  and  the  atmosphere  are 
full  compensation  for  the  lack  of  grace-notes  and 
flourishes.  It  is  good  deep  company,  brimming  over, 
with  a  head  on  it;  for  your  seaman  is  usually  either  a 
great  drinker  or  a  rigid  teetotaller.  Restrictive 
morality  cannot  be  served  here.  The  boys  are  work- 
ers and  when  they  work  they  go  into  it  fuU-heartedly 
and  so  do  they  go  into  their  evenings.  They  are 
avid  for  company  and  cheer,  and  they  drink  their 
beer  as  babies  drink  milk,  and  are  no  more  the  worse 
for  it.  Casual  talk  is  as  impossible  here  as  in  the 
middle  of  the  Strand;  you  must  either  whisper  at 
your  friend's  ear  or  bawl  at  him  across  neighbourly 
heads. 

"Sorry,  chum!"  yelled  a  young  stoker,  whose  el- 
bows the  crowd  had  forced  into  my  ribs.  He  grim- 
aced and  grinned  at  me  over  the  edge  of  his  tankard. 
"Good  drop  o'  beer  this — eh?  Ten  'alf-pints  I've 
'ad  to-night.  Real  benefit  night  with  sick  pay.  Ar! 
If  my  mother  'ad  give  milk  as  good  as  this,  I'd 
never  'ave  left  'er  arms.  What  say — 'aving  an- 
other?" 

We  did.     For  to  drink  beer  among  good  men  is 


IN  THE  STREETS  OF  GOOD  COMPANY   201 

more  blessed  than  to  stand  on  a  platform,  with  a 
glass  of  water,  and  dirty  the  world  with  denials  of 
its  beauty.  We  remembered  to  each  other  the  days 
when  this  place  rang  with  song  and  music.  But  song 
and  all  natural  delights  are  now  forbidden  by  re- 
formers in  the  pay  of  business  men.  The  business 
men's  theory  is  that  by  shutting  off  all  rational  en- 
joyments, and  substituting  tea  and  a  game  of  ludo, 
they  will  get  more  work  out  of  their  servants,  whom, 
like  animals,  they  put  through  scientific  tests  of  en- 
durance, fatigue,  feeding,  and  swift  production.  Let 
a  perfectly  sober  man  start  a  song  in  a  tavern,  even 
piano,  and  a  voice  cries  in  affright — "Order  there! 
Quiet!  Want  to  get  us  into  trouble?"  Even  the 
penny  electric  piano  has  been  banished  from  many 
East  End  pubs  by  the  police,  because  it  leads  to 
disorder;  namely,  singing.  I  would  like  to  quote 
to  the  woful  brethren  who  make  these  orders,  a 
little  song  by  one  of  the  most  spiritual  of  English 
poets. 

Dear  mother,  dear  mother,  the  Church  is  cold ; 

But  the  Ale-house  is  healthy  and  pleasant  and  warm. 

Besides  I  can  tell  where  I  am  used  well ; 

The  poor  parsons  with  wind  like  a  blown  bladder  swell. 

But  if  at  the  Church  they  would  give  us  some  ale, 
And  a  pleasant  fire  our  souls  to  regale, 
We'd  sing  and  we'd  pray  all  the  livelong  day, 
Nor  ever  once  wish  from  the  Church  to  stray. 


202  THE  LONDON  SPY 

Then  the  Parson  might  preach  and  drink  and  sing, 
And  we'd  be  as  happy  as  birds  in  the  spring ; 
And  modest  Dame  Lurch,  who  is  always  at  Church, 
Would  not  have  bandy  children  nor  fasting  nor  birch. 

And  God,  like  a  father,  rejoicing  to  see 

His  children  as  pleasant  and  happy  as  He, 

Would  have  no  more  quarrel  with  the  devil  or  the  barrel ; 

But  kiss  him  and  give  him  both  drink  and  apparel. 

But  your  reformer  never  wants  to  re-form  any- 
thing; he  wants  only  to  suppress;  and  all  his  agita- 
tions have  a  commercial  origin.  You  can  seldom 
get  money  for  feeding  the  hungry  (there's  not  much 
profit  in  that),  but  you  can  always  get  money  for 
corrupting  the  spiritual  civilisations  of  the  East  with 
the  parvenu  moralities  of  the  West,  or  for  dis- 
couraging the  little  pleasures  of  the  poor.  Zeal-of- 
the-land-Busy  can  always  find  backers.  The  vocifer- 
ous teetotaller  and  the  missionary  are  commercial 
travellers  for  the  ignoble  ends  of  their  City  sub- 
scribers, and  the  aim  of  the  campaign  is  Increased 
Production  and  Expanded  Trade,  which  is  an  alias 
for  more  money  for  themselves. 

The  parade  of  the  teetotaller  is  really  amusing. 
I  do  not  know  what  strange  virtue  there  is  in  refrain- 
ing from  a  perfectly  natural  act  that  so  unbalances  a 
man  and  makes  him  invent  a  name  for  himself;  but  I 
have  never  met  a  teetotaller  who  did  not  talk,  a  lit- 
tle blandly,  of  his  abstinence.    He  describes  himself 


IN  THE  STREETS  OF  GOOD  COMPANY    203 

as  "staunch,"  as  though  he  were  keeper  of  a  charge. 
You  don't  hear  the  man  who  refrains  from  sexual 
intercourse  going  about  vaunting  his  self-denial  and 
calling  love  by  hard  names,  as  these  rude  minds  in- 
sult a  noble  Romanee-Conti  by  calling  It  alcohol  and 
the  liquor  traffic.  You  don't  hear  the  unmarried 
woman  calling  herself  a  staunch  virgin.  Yet  they 
have  equal  right  to  do  so;  for  if  the  teetotaller's  line 
is  that  the  tavern  is  a  factor  of  misery,  and  should 
be  suppressed,  then  even  the  purest  sexual  intercourse 
should  be  suppressed.  For  the  abuse  of  sex  has 
brought  far  more  misery  upon  humanity  than  the 
abuse  of  wine.  Yet  while  we  hear  every  day  raucous 
voices  raised  against  the  tavern,  we  hear  no  bleat 
for  compulsory  castration. 

Keep  well  away,  my  dears,  from  these  paid  pimps 
of  bleak  business  men  and  their  dishonest  campaign 
for  prohibition  under  the  cloak  of  Temperance. 
They  don't  want  to  bring  more  beauty  to  your  life 
or  your  surroundings,  or  to  make  things  sweeter  for 
you  and  your  children.  The  aim  of  their  falsehoods 
and  flatulent  periods  is  to  make  you  work  harder — 
for  them.  "Industrial  Efficiency"  is  all  that  interests 
them;  they  have  given  the  game  away  In  their  own 
pamphlets.  One  of  these  days  there  will  be  a  great 
scene  in  England — the  public  hanging  of  the  two 
enemies  of  civilisation — ^the  millionaire  and  the  mis- 
sionary. They  live  hand  in  hand,  and  it  Is  fitting 
that  they  should  swing  together.     Until  then,   my 


204  THE  LONDON  SPY 

child,  live  sanely;  interfere  not  with  others,  nor  let 
them  interfere  with  you. 

Come  away  with  me,  my  child, 

To  the  bitter  and  the  mild, 

With  a  tankard  in  each  hand ; 

For  the  world's  more  full  of  kindliness 

Than  they  can  understand. 

Yes,  and  ginger  is  still  hot  in  the  mouth.  Come 
away,  then,  to  the  "Grave  Maurice,"  in  Whitechapel, 
and  the  "Mrs.  Grundy's  Arms"  off  East  India  Dock 
Road,  two  pleasant  discoveries  of  mine.  I  was  first 
attracted  to  these  places  by  their  notable  signs,  but 
they're  worth  knowing  for  themselves,  especially  on 
Saturday  evenings,  when  the  marketers  take  recess 
from  labours.  I  am  not  old  enough  to  remember 
"Paddy's  Goose"  at  Ratcliff ,  but  that  must  have  been 
a  glorious  hole,  like  that  other  pub  that  stood  in 
Shire  Lane,  and  bore  the  gloriously  evocative  name 
of  "Smashing  Lumber."  The  traditions  of  "Paddy's 
Goose"  are  of  vermilion  hue.  In  its  time  it  was  the 
worst  of  the  dockside  crimping  dens,  where  seamen 
were  hocussed,  their  pay  drawn  in  advance,  and 
themselves,  incapable,  put  on  board  an  outgoing 
vessel.  It  was  also  a  haven  for  dock  pilferers  and 
other  offenders,  and  had  many  obscure  emergency 
exits.  Now,  it  has  swung  to  the  opposite  point.  It 
is  regenerated  as  a  seaman's  Mission,  a  Coffee 
Palace  and  a  Slate  Club,  and  Princess  Mary  has 
danced  a  two-step  upon  its  floors. 


IN  THE  STREETS  OF  GOOD  COMPANY   205 

Slate  Club !  How  coldly  the  words  travel  down 
the  spine.  Say  "night-club" — the  stress-scheme  is 
the  same,  but  how  different  their  descent  upon  the 
ear,  and  how  swiftly  the  respectable  pulse  responds. 
It  has  been  my  pleasant  duty  once  or  twice,  to  assist 
at  the  paying-out  night  of  a  Slate  Club;  and  I  say, 
from  experience  of  both,  that  it  was  a  much  more 
pleasing  function  than  any  of  your  Murray's  or 
Embassies  or  Desti's.  On  ordinary  Saturday  pay- 
ing-in-nights,  the  job  is  certainly  a  little  tepid — a 
matter  of  sitting  at  a  deal  table  in  a  somewhat  chill 
and  naked  hall  and  receiving  cash,  entering  the 
amounts  in  ledger  and  on  card.  But  on  paying-out 
night,  the  Club  drops  its  staid  actuarial  manner  and 
its  gritty  name,  and  becomes  a  real  Club.  The  mem- 
bers come  up  in  a  bunch,  then;  fifteen  hundred  of 
them.  The  hall  borrows  warmth  from  the  spirit 
of  expectancy  and  the  adumbration  of  fifteen  hun- 
dred "good  times"  made  by  the  accumulated  cash  on 
my  table.  I  sit  before  it  like  a  croupier  at  Monte 
Carlo,  and  every  player  is  a  winner.  I  no  longer 
feel  insipid  and  commercial.  Mine,  for  the  moment, 
Is  the  part  of  Scrooge  on  Christmas  morning.  Mem- 
bers at  the  far  end  of  the  queue  joke  among  them- 
selves, though  they  have  never  met  before,  and  never 
joked  on  paying-in-nights.  Here  and  there  a  gust 
of  laughter  runs  down  the  line.  As  each  member 
comes  up  with  his  card,  I  hand  him  his  envelope,  he 
signs  for  it,  and  turns  away  with  a  "Merry  Christ- 


206  THE  LONDON  SPY 

mas,  mister!"  And  I  respond — fifteen  hundred 
times.  Often  I  have  to  laugh  a  thousand  times,  for 
the  greater  number  of  them  try  to  make  an  occasion 
of  their  appearance  at  the  table,  and  have  carefully 
manufactured  some  facetious  greeting,  not  always  in 
perfect  Kensington  taste. 

All  this,  of  course,  provided  that  the  secretary  has 
not  bolted  with  the  funds  in  November.  That,  un- 
happily. Is  an  annual  event,  like  grouse-shooting, 
over  the  sticks,  and  Epiphany,  and  is  too  piously  ob- 
served. It  begins — this  migration  of  secretaries — 
in  the  first  week  of  November  and  continues  until 
the  second  week  of  December.  During  these  weeks 
many  secretaries  of  Diddlum  Clubs,  Farthing  Clubs, 
and  Slate  Clubs,  take  to  the  road  for  a  brief  space 
before  they  are  put  into  winter  quarters.  But  when 
you  consider  the  great  number  of  these  clubs,  and 
the  foolish  trust,  without  supervision,  that  is  reposed 
in  the  secretaries,  themselves  penurious  fellows,  the 
defaulters  are  very  few. 

The  largest  Slate  Club  In  the  world  is  the  New 
Tabernacle  Provident  Society,  at  the  Leysian  Mis- 
sion, City  Road.  It  adjoins  the  Alexandra  Trust, 
where  you  can  get  three  grand  meals  a  day  for  ten 
shillings  a  week.  It  pays  out  annually  about  £25,000 
and  hires  a  posse  of  police  to  escort  the  secretaries 
from  the  Bank  on  paying-out  day  and  to  guard  the 
cash  table.  But  every  little  grocer's  and  butcher's 
and  public-house  in  the  side  streets  of  the  poorer 


IN  THE  STREETS  OF  GOOD  COMPANY   207 

quarters  has  its  Christmas  club.  About  June,  when 
editors  are  making  up  their  Christmas  numbers  and 
pubhshers  are  ready  with  their  Autumn  Lists,  these 
little  shops  put  up  their  first  large-type  announce- 
ments : 

Our  Xmas  Club  Has  Commenced 
Pay  What  You  Like — Have  What  You  Like. 

With  the  pubs,  the  Christmas  bag  is  usually  a 
goose,  a  bottle  of  whisky,  bottle  of  port,  and  bottle 
of  gin.  With  the  butcher — turkey,  goose,  or  join* 
of  beef  or  pork;  and  from  the  grocer  you  take  what 
you  will  to  the  value  of  your  card.  The  pub  Is 
usually  the  safest  of  these  clubs:  pubs  seldom  dis- 
appear over-night;  but  you  want  to  be  careful  In 
choosing  your  side-street  grocer  or  "general"  store, 
for  in  this  line  failures  and  abandoned  shops  are 
frequent. 

The  Slate  Club  at  which  I  have  assisted  was  a 
public-house  Club — the  "Cuckoo's  Nest"  Slate  Club, 
in  the  Cable  street  district,  kept  by  Mr.  'Ockington. 
You  ought  to  know  Mr.  'Ockington.  He's  a  Lad. 
Times  were,  in  the  past,  when  he  was  Handy  Hock- 
Ington,  a  likely  lad  at  a  Canning  Town  boxing-ring; 
and  later,  Frederick  Hockington,  seaman,  and  later 
still.  Police-constable  Hockington.  To-day  he  Is 
Mister  Hockington,  licensee  of  the  "Cuckoo's  Nest." 
His  bar  deportment  is  exquisite — a  mixture  of  the 
lamb  and  the  lion.    He  can  be  lazily  humorous,  and 


208  THE  LONDON  SPY 

he  can  blaze  with  rancour.  He  is  not  a  big  man,  but 
behind  his  bar  he  looms.  He  is  a  Presence.  He  can 
crush  an  impatient  customer  with  a  glance;  and  no 
obstreperous  fellow  in  the  four-ale  bar  ever  waits  to 
be  put  out.  Mister  Hockington  has  only  to  lift  an 
arm  towards  the  counterflap,  and — 

Only  to  familiars  does  he  unbend,  and  even  to 
them  he  is  Mister  Hockington.  To  the  ordinary 
regular,  he  gives  a  "  'Ow  are  yeh?  And  'ow's  the 
good  lady?"  To  the  stranger  he  gives  nothing. 
But  when  he  does  talk.  .  .  .  He  has  seen  things, 
and  he  has  done  things,  and  his  booming  voice  takes 
you  round  the  world.  He  talks  airily  of  days  and 
nights  in  "B.  A.,"  and  fills  his  stuffy  bar  with  the 
sharp  sunshine  of  Buenos  Aires,  and  the  stinging 
odour  of  green  seas.  On  occasions  he  will  sing  an 
old  and  improper  chanty,  and  turn  from  that  to  his 
days  as  dock  policeman.  He  has  a  broad  wit,  and 
expresses  it  by  hand-written  notices  on  the  walls  of 
his  bars. 

"A  customer  was  taken  from  here  to  London  Hospital  last 
week.     He  spoke  out  of  his  turn." 

"Customers  who  get  drunk  in  other  houses  and  come  here 
to  be  sick,  are  warned  off." 

"Obscene  language  forbidden.     The  guv'nor  can  do   it 
better  than  you." 

His  life  has  been  a  sequence  of  thwarted  ambi- 
tions.    As  a  youth  the  ring  attracted  him,  and  he 


IN  THE  STREETS  OF  GOOD  COMPANY   209 

saw  himself  with  the  light-weight  championship  and 
plenty  of  backers.  A  few  K.  O.'s  put  an  end  to  that, 
and  the  sea  called  him.  He  saw  himself  with  a  mas- 
ter's ticket,  and  was  moving  slowly  towards  it  when 
a  mistake  at  the  wheel  In  a  Channel  fog  settled  that. 
(If  you  want  to  spend  a  night  in  London  Hospital 
ask  Hockington  how  he  came  to  lose  the  Iris.)  His 
integrity,  however,  was  always  recognised,  and  a  post 
in  the  dock  police  was  found  for  him.  And  there  he 
stayed,  watching  day  by  day  ships  which  he  should 
have  skippered  departing  for  sunlit  harbours;  until 
he  was  retired  on  a  pension. 

Then  he  spent  some  penitential  years  in  the  pro- 
vincial wilderness  in  a  suburb  of  Birmingham,  where, 
so  he  told  me,  he  "did  very  well  in  the  second-hand." 
Those  years,  I  gather,  from  his  rare  sidelong  refer- 
ences, were  years  of  bitter  exile.  Sorrow  ate  Into 
his  bonny  frame,  and  withered  his  cheerio  counten- 
ance, and  the  atmosphere  of  the  provincial  second- 
hand— which,  indeed,  must  be  the  Avernus  of  the 
second-hand — corroded  the  bright  metal  of  his  soul. 

It  Is  to  be  noted  that  while  London  is  fed  yearly 
with  processions  of  young  provincials,  the  provinces 
and  the  countryside  are  in  equal  measure  fed  with 
desperate  adventurers  from  town;  but — while  the 
provincial  in  London  remains  always  the  provincial,, 
the  Cockney  In  the  provinces  quickly  acquires  the. 
colour  of  his  world,  and  becomes  something  unlovely* 
I  have  met  Cockneys  at  lone  farmsteads  in  the  Cots- 


210  THE  LONDON  SPY 

wolds,  and  did  not  know  them  from  the  thick-spoken 
and  gun-footed  shepherds  until  they  acknowledged 
themselves  in  bitter  words  against  the  stark  country- 
side. Most  seaside  landladies  are  Cockneys,  even 
on  the  coast  of  North  Wales;  and  Cockneys  will 
serve  you  drinks  in  Manchester  and  Norwich,  and 
will  receive  you  at  hotels  in  Torquay  and  Chelten- 
ham and  Ashby-de-la-Zouch.  And  always  with  tears 
in  the  voice;  for  the  Cockney  in  the  provinces  mourns 
every  day  with  those  American  lyrists  whose  sole 
theme  is  a  desire  to  Go  Back,  to  Go  Back.  I  have 
never  heard  this  accent  of  longing  in  the  speech  of 
the  provincial  in  London.  The  rustic  amid  the  nim- 
ble graces  of  the  town  never  nurses  a  secret  yearn 
for  Rochdale  or  Chesterfield  or  Runcorn  or  the  farm 
at  Chorlton-cum-Hardy;  not  he.  One  of  our  public 
choristers  put  his  fingers  well  on  it,  when  he  lately 
asked: 

"How  yeh  gonna  keep  'em  down  on  the  farm. 
After  they've  seen  Paree?" 

He  always  wants  to  be  taken  for  a  Cockney,  and 
never  succeeds;  while  the  poor  Cockney,  against  his 
will,  assimilates  provincial  mannerisms  until  he  is 
unrecognisable,  though,  throughout  his  exile,  his 
heart  is  in  the  Strand  among  the  bananas.  Some- 
times he  comes  back,  usually  penniless;  but  more 
often  he  develops  into  "our  worthy  fellow-towns- 
man," and  Is  named  in  the  local  paper.    Hocklngton 


IN  THE  STREETS  OF  GOOD  COMPANY   211 

was  getting  like  that.  He  was  beginning  to  be  some- 
body in  his  ward;  but  though  there  are  many  poor 
folk  who  would  rather  be  Somebody  among  the  little 
than  Nobody  among  the  great,  he  was  not  one  of 
them.  And  at  last  he  came  back,  by  no  means  penni- 
less. "The  second-hand"  and  his  own  prudence  did 
him  so  well  that  he  was  able  to  retire  to  his  own 
pavements  and  acquire  the  "Cuckoo's  Nest." 

And  there  he  is  now.  His  career  of  mishap  has 
not  soured  him.  He  is  chairman  of  that  Slate  Club, 
run  at  his  house,  and  treasurer  of  the  Christmas 
Goose  Club.  He  has  been  a  good  husband  and  a 
kind  father,  and  to  him  goes  surely  the  encomium  of 
the  district — "  'is  word's  as  good  as  'is  bond."  He 
takes  pride  in  his  pub  as  in  the  ship  that  might  have 
been  his.  He  has  no  mercy  for  the  slack  worker, 
and  his  barman  and  barmaid  speak  of  him  as  a  'oly 
terror.     But  they  don't  want  to  leave. 

On  Saturday  nights  he  sits  among  his  boys.  He 
does  not  serve.  That  labour  belongs  to  his  wife  and 
his  staff.  I  once  heard  an  impatient  stranger  ask 
him  three  times  for  a  bitter.  He  rose.  He  leaned 
his  bulk  across  the  bar.  He  glared  at  the  stranger; 
then  asked,  clipping  his  words:  "Wodyeh  take  me 
for?  A  potman?"  Towards  his  wife  he  Is  heavily 
facetious,  and  in  conversation  speaks  of  her  as  "that 
woman  I  live  with" ;  and  when  her  relatives  arrive 
from  the  country,  for  a  visit,  he  assembles  them  in 
the  back  parlour  and  reads  the  Riot  Act  to  them. 


212  THE  LONDON  SPY 

She  speaks  of  him  as  "that  old  fool,"  with  a  whim- 
sical tolerance  on  the  noun.  The  tolerance  is  justi- 
fied. She  knows  him  through  and  through,  and,  to 
his  faults,  of  which  he  has  many,  she  winks  the  other 
eye.  She  told  me  so,  and  she  told  me  a  story  about 
him;  told  it  proudly,  too. 

It  appears  that  upon  a  night  'Ock  went  out  to  a 
dinner  of  some  trade  society,  and  he  and  a  few  per- 
sonal friends,  having  done  well  at  the  dinner  de- 
cided to  carry  on  the  good  work,  and  make  a  night 
of  it.  It  appeared  from  his  confession  in  the  morn- 
ing that  they  went  here  and  there,  and  in  Oxford 
Street  they  picked  up  company  and  drove  to  a  "place" 
where  Paphian  delights  were  to  be  had  and  bottles 
of  wine  were  available. 

Mrs.  'Ock  sat  up  long  past  midnight,  and  at  two 
o'clock  retired  to  bed  leaving  the  door  unbolted,  un- 
comfortably sure  that  the  old  fool  had  got  into  a 
mess  again.  At  four  in  the  morning  a  hammering 
on  the  door.  Mrs.  'Ock  descended,  and  there  on 
the  doorstep  sat  a  weary  and  disreputable  'Ock. 

"Come  on  in,  y'old  fool,  you!" 

She  lugged  him  in  by  the  shoulders,  and  he  leaned 
against  the  wall,  head  drooped,  arms  limp,  eyes  half- 
shut,  oblivious  of  his  situation. 

"Go  on  upstairs,  yeh  fooH" 

He  didn't  move. 

"Come  upstairs,  silly  great  thing,  you!" 

"Shan't!" 


IN  THE  STREETS  OF  GOOD  COMPANY   213 

"Don't  be  silly,  Fred.  You  come  upstairs  with 
me  at  once." 

Then  'Ock  turned  to  his  wife,  and  said  the  beau- 
tiful thing  that  endeared  him  to  Mrs.  'Ock  for  all 
time. 

"Nope.  Nope,  my  gel.  I'll — I'll  stand  y'all  a 
bottler  w-wine,  but  I'm  d-damned  if  I'll  come  up- 
stairs.   I  got  too  good  a  missus !" 

By  his  personality  he  has  made  the  "Cuckoo's 
Nest"  a  Place.  Men  no  longer  call  it  by  its  sign. 
They  say:  "Let's  go  round  to  old  'Ockington's."  He 
found  it  a  battered  little  beer-shanty,  unfrequented 
and  of  ill-repute.  He  has  changed  it  into  a  place 
where  men  may  take  their  wives  and  hear  nothing 
that  should  shock.  His  life  may  have  been  a  record 
of  failures,  but  it  is  crowned  by  this  one  achievement 
— the  "Cuckoo's  Nest."  Go  and  see  him  one  day, 
and  try  to  make  his  acquaintance.  I  won't  give  you 
the  precise  address  but  anybody  around  Leman 
Street  and  Cable  Street  will  direct  you  if  you  ask  for 
the  house  kept  by  the  ex-dock  policeman.  He  may 
not  be  willing  to  know  you;  it  depends  on  your  sort; 
but  if  he  Is,  you  will  enjoy  him,  and  anyway  the  trip 
will  do  you  good.  He  won't  thank  me,  though,  for 
introducing  you,  be  you  the  brightest  of  fellows.  I 
know  what  he'll  say.  He'll  say:  "Damn  that  young 
fellow  Burke — getting  me  talked  about  like  them 
that  gets  their  pictures  into  the  papers.  I'll  clip  'is 
ear  next  time  'e  comes  along!" 


—VIII— 
IN  THE  STREET  CALLED  QUEER 

THE  police-court  Is  the  living  cinematograph  of 
the  town's  life.  There,  in  swift  flashes,  hu- 
manity passes  before  you  in  all  Its  curious  forms  and 
phases.  Comedy,  melodrama,  farce,  tragedy  and 
incredible  coincidence  follow  one  another  as  "case" 
follows  "case."  It  is  a  procession  of  the  passions,  a 
panorama  of  the  loves,  hates,  sorrows,  cares,  and 
freakish  twists  of  man.  Our  neighbours  may  dis- 
guise themselves  cleverly  enough  in  their  daily  life; 
but  once  they  are  in  the  court,  the  truth  comes  out. 
They  stand  revealed.  We  learn  that  our  serious 
neighbour,  Mr.  Brown,  Is  a  counterfeiter  of  pound- 
notes;  that  Mr.  Robinson,  of  "The  Laurels,"  Is  a 
Mormon;  that  Mr.  Smith  is  addicted  to  secret  drlnk- 
ings;  that  Mr.  Wumble  Is  a  pathological  case;  that 
Mrs.  Widley  is  a  shop-lifter  (we  often  wondered 
how  she  got  those  furs — and  her  husband  only  a 
surveyor)  ;  and  that  the  venerable  Mr.  Steptoe  Is  a 
"confidence"  man.  And  It  is  surprising  how  the 
court  shows  them  up.  We  wonder  how  we  could 
ever  have  been  deceived  by  them.  All  their  criminal 
instincts  come  out  and  perch  around  them.     Disguise 

is  useless.     There   they   stand,   slinking  like   shop- 

214 


IN  THE  STREET  CALLED  QUEER      215 

lifters,  or  crouching  like  poisoners.  Elegant  clothes 
become  shabby.  Easy  manners  become  ludicrous. 
Agreeable  voices  become  hoarse  and  uneven.  Often 
they  are  not  guilty  of  the  offence,  but  It  makes  little 
difference;  one  can  never  respect  them  again.  In 
the  dock  or  in  the  witness-box  they  have  exposed 
their  true  selves;  all  their  assumed  or  native  dignity 
gone;  and  wc,  the  spectators,  are  inclined  to  approve 
ourselves  as  not  such  poor  creatures  after  all — until 
we  begin  to  think  how  we  should  carry  the  situation 
in  the  dock  or  the  box.  Yet  there  is  no  sense  of 
publicity;  it  is  more  like  an  informal  chat  in  cham- 
bers. 

The  procedure  of  one  court  is  very  much  like  that 
of  another.  First  are  heard,  before  the  public  is 
admitted,  the  applicants  for  advice  and  summonses. 
Then,  the  plain  drunks.  Then,  the  drunk-and-dis- 
orderlies  and  assaults  on  the  police.  Then  the  mo- 
torist and  cyclist  offenders.  Then,  the  more  serious 
cases.  In  the  court  are  the  magistrate,  the  clerk,  the 
usher  (who  usually  combines  this  office  with  that  of 
caretaker) ,  one  or  two  policemen  to  keep  order,  so- 
licitors representing  the  offenders,  the  usual  press- 
men, and  the  court  missionary.  At  the  back  or  the 
sides,  behind  a  railing,  the  public  stands. 

The  most  interesting  figure  of  all  is  that  of  the 
court  missionary;  usually  a  man,  but  sometimes  a 
woman,  and  In  big  courts  a  man  and  a  woman.  He 
is  a  sort  of  liaison  officer  between  the  offender  and 


216  THE  LONDON  SPY 

the  law.  His  duties  are  manifold,  and  his  hours  are 
the  hours  of  the  clock.  You  read  the  phrase :  "the 
court  missionary  was  asked  to  make  enquiries."  It 
sounds  simple,  but  those  enquiries  may  mean  a  day's 
work,  and,  to  make  them  effectively,  the  missionary 
must  have  knowledge  and  understanding  of  men  of 
all  types,  fearlessness,  a  kind  heart,  a  strong  mind, 
a  quick  judgment,  and — most  important — tact  and 
an  unofficial  manner.  For  in  his  human  manner,  as 
against  the  policeman's  authority,  lies  the  value  of 
his  office.  By  his  experience  he  is  usually  apt  in 
detecting  the  sniveller,  the  hypocrite,  and  the  rogue; 
and  in  spotting  innocence  where  all  the  evidence 
points  to  guilt.  He  touches  every  angle  of  human 
nature.  He  has  to  patch  up  husband  and  wife  quar- 
rels, to  placate  landlord  and  lodger,  to  get  work  for 
the  first  offender  who  has  been  "driven  to  it"  by  un- 
employment, to  admonish  naughty  boys  and  girls, 
to  keep  in  touch  with  offenders,  released  on  proba- 
tion, to  take  charge  of  attempted  suicides,  to  reclaim 
the  old  offender,  to  talk  with  prisoners  on  remand 
and  seek  to  help  them;  and  generally,  to  be  father, 
guardian,  pastor,  teacher,  uncle  and  good  friend  to 
the  helpless  and  broken  creatures  of  the  highways 
and  hedges. 

It  is,  I  am  sure,  no  reflection  on  the  court  mis- 
sionaries of  to-day  to  say  that  the  best  of  them  was 
that  rare  character,  Thomas  Holmes,  once  mission- 
ary of  the  North  London  Court  at  Dalston,   and 


IN  THE  STREET  CALLED  QUEER      217 

later  secretary  to  the  Howard  Society.  He  wrote 
three  volumes  of  his  experiences  of  the  people  among 
whom  and  for  whom  he  worked;  and  if  you  would 
learn  charity  towards  all  men  and  malice  towards 
none,  get  them  and  read  them  and  read  them  again. 
He  not  only  did  his  work  efficiently;  he  had  a  great 
gift  of  winning  the  friendship  of  even  the  "old 
hands"  in  crime;  and  though  many  of  them  treated 
his  efforts  towards  reclaiming  them  with  a  certain 
jocular  scorn,  they  recognised  his  quality  and  always 
came  to  see  him  when  they  "came  out."  They" 
knew  him  for  a  straight  man  and  fearless;  and 
though  they  visited  his  home,  and  sometimes  lodged 
with  him,  nothing  of  his  was  ever  touched.  They 
might  have  robbed  a  magistrate  but  Mister  'Olmes 
was  on  a  different  footing.  By  tacit  agreement  he 
was  exempt  from  professional  attentions.  I  have 
myself  observed  this  trait  in  old  "lags."  Treat 
them  as  man  to  man,  and  they  and  their  friends  will 
never  worry  you.  But  show  the  least  sign  of  re- 
garding them  as  offenders,  or  patronising  them,  and 
you  are  not  safe.  If  they  ask  you  for  money,  and 
give  you  their  word  to  repay  it  by  Monday,  and  you 
take  their  word  casually,  as  you  would  take  a 
friend's  word,  you  will  get  your  money.  But  if  you 
take  their  word  with  even  a  suggestion  of  manner 
that  they  need  not  bother  to  give  it,  because  you 
don't  expect  them  to  keep  it,  you  will  lose  your 
money;  and  you  will  damage  their  self-respect. 


218  THE  LONDON  SPY 

For  most  of  the  respectable  poor  the  police-court, 
in  prospect,  holds  many  terrors,  but  in  the  metropoli- 
tan courts  these  terrors  have  no  real  existence.  I 
have  always  found  the  London  magistrates  wise, 
understanding,  humane,  and  courteous — except  to 
the  "twister."  They  are  anxious  to  help,  rather 
than  harass;  kindly  rather  than  cynical;  though 
Lord  knows  the  job  would  turn  most  sweet  believers 
into  cynics.  Even  when  sentencing  the  old  offender, 
there  is  a  sort  of  twinkling  camaraderie  between  the 
bench  and  the  "lag" — a  wry  smile  upon  human 
frailty  and  a  saucy  deference  to  the  operations  of  the 
law. 

"Well,  Bennett,  this  is  the  eighth  time  this  year. 
Anything  to  say?" 

Bennett,  a  stocky,  grizzled  figure,  past  middle- 
age,  leans  confidently  across  the  rail  of  the  dock, 
and  talks  as  man  to  man. 

"No  sir,  it  was  a  fair  cop.  I  on'y  come  out  a  munf 
ago — that  is,  a  munf  ago  come  Pancake  Day.  But 
there,  you  know  'ow  it  is,  doncher?  Fact  is,  Fm  too 
full  o'  life  to  be  let  loose.  When  Fm  on  me  own,  I 
'ave  to  break  out  now  and  then — or  suffocate.  But 
Fm  alwis  well  be'aved  in  there.  They'll  tell  yeh  so 
— won't  yeh,  sergeant?  Fm  'appier  in  there.  More 
'omey-like.  But  once  Fm  out — well,  you  know 
what  boys  are.  .  .  .  Go  on.  Mister  Cairns,  get  on 
wiv  it." 

"Very  well,  then.  .  .  .  Two  months." 


IN  THE  STREET  CALLED  QUEER      219 

'"Ard?" 

"Without  hard  labour." 

"Thank  yeh,  Mister  Cairns.  That's  real  matey. 
O  revvaw!" 

Then  there  is  the  indignant  reprobate. 

"Here  again,  Gassier.  You're  always  here.  And 
always  the  same  charge.  .  .  .  Well,  did  you  cut  the 
prosecutor's  eye?" 

"Well,  Mister  Reynolds,  'e  called  me  a  bahstud." 

"Oh?" 

"Yerce.  Who's  gointer  sit  dahn  under  that? 
Woddud  you  do,  Mister  Reynolds,  if  I  was  to  call 
you  a  bahstud?" 

"I  think  we'll  leave  speculative  questions  out  of 
it,  and  stick  to  facts.  You,  sir,  did  you  call  prisoner 
a  bastard?" 

"Well— yes,  sir,  I  did." 

"And  why?" 

"Well,  'e  come  storming  into  the  bar,  upset  my 
beer  and  pinched  my  wife's  cheek.  And  as  'e's  alwis 
doing  things  like  that  I  lorst  me  temper  and  called 
'im — what  you  said.  And  then  'e  set  abaht  me  and 
give  me  this." 

"I  see.  You  hear  that,  Gassier?  Did  you  upset 
this  man's  beer  and  interfere  with  his  wife?" 

"Well,  I  was  alwis  one  for  a  bit  of  a  lark.  You 
know  that,  sir," 

"Yes,  I  seem  to  recollect  some  of  your  larks. 
But  I'm  afraid  such  high  spirits  must  be  curbed. 


220  THE  LONDON  SPY 

They  are  not  good  for  you  or  your  neighbours. 
What  did  I  give  you  last  time?" 

"Fourteen  days,  sir,  and  it  seems  to  me  cruel  'ard 
that  .  .  ." 

"Right.     Take  six  weeks  this  time." 

"Six  weeks?  'Ere,  I  say,  guv'nor  .  .  .  An'  after 
'Im  calling  me  a  bahstud?" 

"Take  the  prisoner  down,  officer." 

"All  right,  all  right.  Don't  git  excited.  I'm 
going.  But  I  on'y  'ope  some  one  calls  you  a  bah- 
stud 'fore  long.  Then  you'll  'ave  sympathy  with  a 
man's  feelings.  We  got  our  feelings  same  as  what 
you  'ave,  an  .   .   .   'm  .  .   .  'm  .   .   .   'm." 

And  there  is  the  bewildered  first  offender,  who 
knows  that  the  magistrate  has  some  title  of  honour, 
but  does  not  know  the  term,  and  addresses  him  vari- 
ously as  "My  Lord,"  "Your  Grace,"  "Your  Wor- 
ship," "Your  Honour,"  "Judge,"  and  "My  Wor- 
ship." 

Each  corner  has  its  own  atmosphere.  Bow 
Street  Court  and  Mansion  House  are  often  sensa- 
tional with  "big"  cases — fraud  and  murder.  North 
London  has  its  pitiful  tale  of  squalor  and  wreck- 
age. West  Ham  has  its  riots,  assaults,  and  domestic 
squabbles,  and  Thames,  the  chief  court  for  dock- 
land, is  the  richest  of  them  all  in  the  bizarre  and  the 
unexpected.  In  the  past,  Marlborough  Street  and 
Marylebone  were  centres  of  interest;  for  then  there 
was  a  daily  procession  of  offenders,  rich  and  poor, 


IN  THE  STREET  CALLED  QUEER      221 

shabby  and  resplendent.  Then  there  were  drunks  in 
last  night's  evening  clothes,  gaming-house  charges, 
disorderly  house  raids,  silken  ladies  and  drabs 
charged  with  obstructing,  street  affrays,  assaults  and 
battery,  and  all  that  aftermath  of  London-by-night 
when  London  was  supposed  to  be  as  "gay"  as  Paris. 

To-day,  these  are  the  dullest  of  courts.  "Drunk" 
charges  are  few,  and  solicitation  charges  against 
women  are  not  made  now.  Our  streets  are  cleansed, 
and  the  girls  that  once  sauntered  in  the  open  places 
and  highways  now  either  loiter  in  dim  side-streets  or 
have  sought  fresh  territory  in  the  Commons  of  the 
suburbs.  The  old  type  has  passed  away,  and  a  new 
type  has  arisen — the  amateur.  I  do  not  know  that 
this  is  for  the  better.  The  professionals  who  sat 
night  by  night  in  the  basement  bars  around  Leicester 
Square  were  old,  haggard,  bold  and  harsh.  Their 
physical  appeal  to  young  men  could  have  been  small. 
But  these  new  amateurs  are  most  attractive;  they 
are  pretty,  youthful,  graceful,  and  naturally  lively. 
You  see  them  about  in  all  parts  after  the  big  shops 
are  closed.  It  is  not  with  them  a  matter  of  the  last 
resort  of  all  for  mere  bread.  They  are  in  it  because 
they  like  it;  they  want  an  evening  out.  If  they  can 
get  it  without  paying  for  it,  they  will;  but  they 
are  ready  to  give  the  usual  return  when  it  is  ex- 
pected. 

This  class  was  always  about,  but  it  is  now  a  grow- 
ing class.     It  came  in  during  the  war,  when  the  pro- 


222  THE  LONDON  SPY 

fessionals  were  put  down,  and  when  the  second- 
lieutenant  could  have  all  that  he  asked  of  England's 
girlhood.  It  began  in  khaki-mania,  but  it  is  now  for 
many  a  settled  course  of  life.  You  will  find  this  type 
around  the  'bus  stops  and  in  the  tea-lounges  of  the 
cheap-rich  hotels.  She  bears  no  distinguishing  marks. 
She  is  mostly  at  the  flapper-stage — in  her  teens,  often 
of  good  middle  class  and  of  fair  education.  There 
is  no  flashy  costume,  not  much  paint,  and  no  coarse 
behaviour.  She  has  not  the  frank  inviting  grin  of 
her  elder  sister,  or  the  verbal  appeal;  but  there  is  a 
delicate  twist  on  the  lips  and  a  certain  veiled  audacity 
in  the  eye.  I  once  asked  one  of  these,  bluntly,  what 
attracted  her  in  playing  at  what  was  a  serious  and 
unpleasant  business.  I  wondered  whether  it  were 
easy  money  or  pure  animalism.  Neither — she  said. 
Things  were  dull  at  home,  and  she  liked  the  fun  and 
excitement  of  meeting  and  talking  to  different  peo- 
ple. That  was  all.  She  talked  with  graceful  accent, 
and  showed  sense  and  sensibility  and  considerable 
intelligence,  with  a  perverse  delight  in  her  new 
course  of  life.     It  spelt  Adventure. 

She  and  her  kind  are  wary.  Never  do  they  get 
Into  the  police-court.  They  make  no  approaches. 
Their  demeanour  Is  faultless.  They  do  not  parade 
and  Invite.  They  wait  for  that  to  come  from  the 
other  side,  and  should  there  be  any  suspicion  of  trou- 
ble they  immediately  swing  round  In  disgust  and 
charge  the  man  with  interfering  with  them.     That 


IN  THE  STREET  CALLED  QUEER      223 

is  why  the  West  End  courts  are  free  of  solicitation 
charges;  and  why  makers  of  statistics  complacently 
point  to  the  purging  of  social  life.  In  the  same  way 
they  point  to  the  absence  of  "drunk"  charges,  as  the 
result  of  the  shortened  hours.  In  each  case,  it  only 
means  that  the  old  games  are  going  on  downstairs 
instead  of  on  the  ground  floor.  Letting  the  devil 
pop  out  now  and  then  may  not  be  perfect  policy,  but 
driving  him  indoors  is  utter  folly.  Vice  has  become 
respectable  and  discreet;  and  never  is  vice  so  abom- 
inable as  when  it  is  discreet  and  latent. 

The  East  End  has  not  yet  learnt  these  tricks, 
and  there  they  go  about  their  naughtiness  with 
clumsy  candour,  In  open  light.  Daily  the  Thames 
Police  Court  provides  a  pageant  of  curious  mis- 
demeanour; a  succession  of  glimpses  into  dark  cor- 
ners of  the  heart.  It  stands  in  Arbour  Square, 
Stepney — a  horrid  squat  building  of  unkind  coun- 
tenance. You  pass  through  the  public  entry,  and 
take  your  place  at  the  back  with  a  company  of  un- 
employed, niggers,  brown  men.  Chinks,  wasters, 
blowsy  women  in  variegated  costumes;  some  of  them 
Idle  lookers-on,  others  friends  or  enemies  of  the  ac- 
cused. The  cinema  and  the  music-hall  cost  money. 
This  show  is  free  to  all,  with  the  added  glow  of 
grace  that  goes  with  the  contemplation  of  the  mis- 
fortunes of  your  neighbours.  All  police-courts  have 
a  smell — the  smell  of  poverty;  but  Thames  has  a 
rich  and  varied  succession  of  smells,  the  smells  pe- 


224  THE  LONDON  SPY 

culiar  to  the  Chink,  the  Malay,  the  Russian  and  the 
Burmese.  And  this  cluster  of  vague  smells  gathers, 
like  a  swarm  of  bees,  about  the  smell  of  poverty,  and 
becomes  one  definite  potent  stink.  But  this  offence 
to  the  nose,  virulent  though  it  be.  Is  countered  by  the 
drama  that  is  unfolded  as  each  case  is  called. 

Monday  is  a  good  day.  The  first  appearances  are 
the  Saturday-night  cases,  and  these  are  of  every  type 
— the  tough,  the  pugilist,  the  respectable  workman 
fallen  from  grace,  a  shop-keeper,  a  few  old  women, 
and  an  occasional  black  man.  The  rarest  charge  is 
a  drunken  Chink.  He  offends  often,  but  never  in 
drunkenness.  Rare  and  subtle  offences,  imported 
from  the  East,  and  left  unrecorded  by  most  news- 
papers, follow  squabble  between  landlord  and  tenant, 
husband  and  wife,  and  mother  and  daughter.  Quong 
Foo  is  charged  with  being  in  possession  of  opium  and 
smoking  utensils.  He  speaks  no  English,  and  the 
Chinese  interpreter  is  called  in.  Quong  Foo  has 
nothing  to  say.  He  listens  to  the  charge  and  blinks. 
The  police  ask  for  a  deportation  order.  They  pro- 
duce evidence  that  he  has  been  previously  convicted 
of  keeping  a  gaming-house,  and  has  been  harbour- 
ing white  girls.  Here  Quong  Foo  speaks,  and  the 
interpreter  tells  the  court  that  Quong  didn't  want 
the  girls :  they  came  to  him  and  refused  to  go  away. 
Fined  £io  and  recommended  for  deportation. 
Quong  pays  up  and  goes  quietly  away. 

Jack  Ramshu  Boona,  Malay,  charged  with  stab- 


IN  THE  STREET  CALLED  QUEER      225 

bing  a  compatriot.  Boona  has  much  to  say — too 
much — and  says  it  at  some  length.  Another  in- 
terpreter called.  Boona  admits  the  stabbing,  but 
shows  weighty  cause  why  he  did  the  right  thing.  The 
stabbing  was  quite  in  order  and  according  to  rules. 
It  began  in  Upper  Burmah,  and  he  has  waited  three 
years  for  this  occasion.  Magistrate  unconvinced. 
Twenty-one  days. 

Mrs.  O'Flaherty  wants  assistance  to  find  her 
daughter,  aged  15.  She  hasn't  been  home  for 
three  nights.  Has  lately  been  going  with  black 
men,  and  four  days  ago  two  white  boys  set  about 
her  in  the  street  because  of  this.  Press  asked  to 
publish  description.  Court  Missionary  ashed  to  con- 
fer with  Mrs.  O'Flaherty. 

Charles  Gattring,  stevedore,  charged  with  as- 
saulting gatekeeper  at  docks.  Gatekeeper  appears,  a 
bundle  of  splints  and  bandages.  Gattring  was  one 
of  two  hundred  men  applying  for  four  jobs.  When 
jobs  were  filled  Gattring  assaulted  gate-keeper. 
Gattring,  ex-soldier  with  four  children  and  pension 
of  seventeen-and-sixpence  a  week,  admits  assault. 
Had  walked  from  Upper  Tooting  for  this  job. 
When  job  was  filled,  gatekeeper  became  abusive  and 
"made  a  face  at  me,  and  got  my  blood  up.  Wouldn't 
it  you,  with  four  kids  what've  on'y  had  stale  bread 
and  water  the  last  week?"  Court  missionary  has  en- 
quired at  Gattring's  home,  and  found  his  story  cor- 
rect.    Magistrate    very    sympathetic,    but     assault 


226  THE  LONDON  SPY 

proved.     Sev^en  days.     Missionary  asked  to  rendei" 
assistance  at  home. 

George  Washington  Grant  Lincoln  Jones,  col- 
oured gentleman,  charged  with  shooting  at  landlord 
of  "Formosa  Lily,"  and  with  being  in  possession  of 
a  revolver  without  a  license.  G.  W.  G.  L.  Jones 
denies  everything.  Landlord  tells  of  refusing  Jones 
a  drink  after  closing  time,  whereupon  Jones  fired  at 
him.  The  bullet  smashed  four  bottles  of  whisky 
and  three  glasses.  Remanded.  Jones  leaves  the 
dock,  indignantly  denying  the  story,  and  immediately 
uppercuts  the  landlord.  Turmoil  and  struggle. 
Jones  collared  and  taken  below,  to  be  charged  again 
later  with  this  fresh  assault. 

Iris  May  Hamburg,  charged  with  wandering 
without  means.  Has  been  living  in  Amoy  Place. 
Mother,  from  Salisbury,  of  well-to-do  middle-class, 
begs  Iris  to  go  home  with  her.  Iris  refuses.  Fed 
up.  Magistrate  pleads  with  her.  Still  refuses.  She 
is  much  happier  on  her  own.  Sent  to  a  reformatory. 
Scene.  A  wail  of  horror.  Outburst  in  the  dock. 
Matron  called  in.  Struggle,  till  at  last  physical  force 
wins.  Iris  disappears  through  doorway,  a  whirl- 
wind of  screams  and  limbs  and  clothes.  Screams 
ringing  through  court  long  after  she  has  disappeared. 
Everybody  uncomfortable.  Low  convulsive  moans 
heard  coming  from  the  cells. 

And  the  next  case  is  called,  and  the  next.     And 
above  the  clamour  of  charge  and  counter-charge,  of 


IN  THE  STREET  CALLED  QUEER      227 

solid  asseveration  and  vehement  denial,  sits,  calm 
and  cool,  the  magistrate,  the  Cadi  of  this  corner  of 
the  East.  His  face  is  impassive.  You  might  think 
that  his  attention  was  wandering;  that  he  saw  and 
heard  nothing.  But  you  find,  at  the  end  of  the  case, 
that  he  has  heard  and  seen  everything  that  passed, 
and  much  that  was  imperceptible  to  those  untrained 
in  the  wile  and  cunning  of  the  old  offender.  In  one 
case  you  may  think  him  too  harsh,  in  another,  too 
lenient.  But  he  knows.  He  knows  how  to  weigh 
the  motive  against  the  act;  how  to  discern  the  truth 
or  the  lie,  whether  it  come  from  Oriental  lips  or 
Cockney  jaws.  He  does  not,  like  a  judge,  sit  to  ad- 
minister pure  law,  but  to  guide,  to  counsel,  to  be- 
friend, and,  sorrowfully,  to  punish. 

Punishments  vary  in  the  magistrate's  discretion. 
There  are  some  who  are  noted  for  the  extreme  sen- 
tence that  the  law  permits;  others,  who  seldom  use 
their  full  power.  The  main  idea  Is  that  the  punish- 
ment should  fit  the  crime,  but  surely  this  is  wrong. 
The  aim  of  punishment  is  to  deter,  and  therefore 
the  punishment  should  fit  the  criminal,  not  the  crime. 
Instead  of  a  set  code  of  punishments  for  set  offences, 
we  should  have  a  code  variable  upon  the  character 
of  the  prisoner.  Many  men  will  continue  cheerfully 
to  offend,  so  long  as  their  offences  may  be  met  by 
money-payments,  while  seven  days'  Imprisonment 
would  mean  hell  for  them.  Others  would  more  com- 
fortably do   a  month  than  pay  up   forty  shillings. 


228  THE  LONDON  SPY 

Some  tough  cases,  sentenced  to  a  long  term,  have 
even  asked  that  some  of  It  may  be  docked,  and  the 
"cat"  substituted  instead;  what  would  be  physical 
torture  to  others,  is  to  them  a  trifle.  The  character 
and  temperament  of  the  prisoner  should  In  all  cases 
be  considered  before  passing  sentence,  so  that  he 
may  receive  the  sentence  that  will  most  Impress  him. 
A  month's  imprisonment  for  an  old  hand  and  a 
month's  imprisonment  for  a  quiet  suburban  clerk 
may  sound  the  same  thing,  but  they  are  widely  dif- 
ferent. For  precisely  similar  offences,  one  man 
might  be  adequately  punished  by  the  public  expo- 
sure, the  night  in  the  cells  and  the  ride  In  the  prison- 
van;  while  the  other  would  be  only  properly  punished 
by  six-months'  hard  labour.  For  numbers  of  hard- 
shelled  men  prison  will  have  no  horrors;  for  the 
more  sensitive  seven  days  at  Wandsworth  Is  as  af- 
frighting as  a  stretch  at  Portland. 

When  the  lighter  cases  are  dismissed,  the  more 
serious  cases,  remand  cases,  come  on.  It  Is  instruc- 
tive to  hear  a  detective  give  evidence.  In  flat,  grey 
tones  he  recites  what  the  prisoner  said  on  being  ar- 
rested. One  can  visualise  the  scene — the  shock,  the 
fright,  the  hoarse  tones,  the  exclamatory  appeals, 
the  whine,  the  outburst.  But  nothing  of  this  atmos- 
phere Is  reproduced  by  the  detective.  Keeping  his 
eyes  on  his  notes,  he  Intones  from  them  without  the 
slightest  Inflection  to  mark  one  word  from  another, 
so  that  the  prisoner  shall  not  be  In  any  way  preju- 


IN  THE  STREET  CALLED  QUEER      229 

diced  by  any  stress  or  llghtlng-up  of  possibly  damag- 
ing words. 

"I  told  the  prisoner  that  I  held  a  warrant  for  her 
arrest,  and  that  she  would  be  charged  with  the  man- 
slaughter of  Annie  Diprose,  and  I  duly  cautioned 
her  that  anything  she  might  say  would  be  taken 
down." 

"Did  the  prisoner  make  any  remarks?" 

"Yes.  (Reading  from  notes.)  She  said:  "Oh — ' 
my — God — that — Sal — has — put — me — away — she 
Is — ?L — nice — one — what — shall — I — do — I — will — ; 
never — help — anybody — In — trouble — again." 

It  was  at  Thames  that  I  got  mixed  up  in  the  case 
of  Ernie,  through  his  creating  a  disturbance  in  the 
public  section,  and  calling  me  his  dear  ole  pal.  We 
were  both  turned  out.  I  had  never  met  him  before, 
but  I  met  him  often  after  that.  Ernie  has  a  story 
— a  pale,  commonplace  story;  neither  tragic  nor 
comic;  just  a  dull  descent  into  the  mire,  until  he 
became  a  regular  figure  In  the  court  list.  For  a  drink 
he  will  tell  you  his  story.  He  was  a  young  man, 
and  his  father,  a  retired  mercantile  captain,  though 
able  on  the  sea,  was  a  fool  of  a  father.  Ernie  was 
to  go  Into  business,  and  while  father  looked  about 
for  a  business,  Ernie,  lazy,  weak,  and  shiftless,  em- 
ployed his  allowance  In  becoming  one  of  the  lads. 
The  other  lads  would  drink  or  not  drink,  as  busi- 
ness required;  but  Ernie  was  a  dipsomaniac,  on  the 
mat  when  they  opened,  and  thrown  out  at  closing- 


230  THE  LONDON  SPY 

time.  He  abused  the  gift  of  good  drink  as  others 
abuse  the  gift  of  good  food  or  the  holy  gift  of  sex. 
He  frittered  his  hours  away  in  banal  chatter  with 
tough  loafers  and  in  swift  rounds.  He,  who  could 
not  drink,  judged  men  by  their  capacity  in  drinking; 
and  he  looked  with  contempt  upon  those  who  refused 
another  when  he  himself  was  loose  on  his  legs. 
*'You're  no  good,  y'know.     Yew  earn'  drink." 

He  was  discovered  by  an  ex-bruiser,  who  intro- 
duced him  to  the  bunch.  Until  then  he  had  been 
a  lonely  youth,  wandering  aimlessly  about  the  streets, 
and  allaying  his  boredom  by  afternoon  and  nightly 
visits  to  music-halls,  theatres,  and  cinemas.  Then 
Slaughter  Levinsky  found  him,  and  found  the  fat 
pocket  and  the  pale  amiability.  Ernie  was  delighted 
with  the  company  to  whom  the  pug.  introduced  him. 
He  moved  upward  into  a  world  of  wit  and  warmth 
and  wonder.  He  had  not  known  that  there  were 
such  good  fellows  about  Stepney.  They  were  good 
boys — oh,  fine  boys.  Real  Sports.  After  he  had 
been  an  hour  in  their  company,  they  told  him  that  he 
was  a  good  boy,  too.  There  was  a  "something" 
about  him,  they  said.  .  .   . 

By  two  o'clock  they  were  still  there;  and  now 
they  w^ere  like  old  friends.  He  was  "Ernie"  and 
they  were  "George"  and  "Fred"  and  "Charlie." 
It  seemed  that  George  had  been  waiting  for  years 
to  meet  just  such  a  one  as  Ernie,  worthy  of  his  darl- 
ing confidences.     As  he  laconically  put  it,   after  a 


IN  THE  STREET  CALLED  QUEER      231 

shut-eyed  rambling  quest  for  the  exact  phrase :  They 
understood  one  another.  That's  what  it  was.  And 
Ernie  agreed.  At  six  o'clock  in  the  evening  they 
met  again,  amid  a  spattering  hail  of — "What  y'av- 
ing,  old  man?    No — I  arst  'im  first." 

They  left  uproariously  at  half-past  ten,  bubbling 
with  stories  and  intimacies. 

Early  next  morning,  Ernie  met  Charlie  in  the  Mile 
End  Road.  Charlie  passed  him  with  barely  a  nod. 
Ernie  wondered  whether  he  had  given  offence;  or 
whether  Charlie  had  forgotten  their  long  evening's 
friendship,  and  did  not  know,  "outside,"  the  friends 
of  the  saloon.  It  didn't  seem  right,  somehow. 
Charlie  had  barely  looked  at  him.  His  face  had 
been  downcast;  a  little  knot  had  formed  on  his  brow, 
and  the  half-smile  he  attempted  seemed  to  hurt  him. 
But  at  twelve  o'clock,  when  Ernie  called  the  rendez- 
vous, Charlie  was  there,  genial  and  open;  a  little 
lower  in  tone,  perhaps,  but  ready  with  hand  at 
pocket.  "Morning,  Ernie.  'Ow're  yeh  feeling?  Bit 
of  a  doing  last  night,  eh?  What's  it  to  be?  .  .  . 
Well,  'ere's  good  music,  boy!" 

He  was  one  of  them.  He  heard  their  adventures, 
shared  their  troubles,  and  applauded  their  exploits. 
"  'Course,  Ernie,  this  won't  go  no  farther, 
y'know.  .  .  ."  "Oh,  'at's  all  right,  o'man.  /  know. 
I'm  a  bo'emian,  and  a  pal's  a  pal,  whether  'e  goes 
orf  the  rails  or  not." 

And  while  father  went  about  looking  for  a  suit- 


232  THE  LONDON  SPY 

able  business  to  purchase,  Ernie  cultivated  the  tricks 
of  good  fellowship. 

And  so  it  went  on,  with  two  "sittings"  a  day;  and 
although  the  old  man  proffered  various  businesses, 
none  of  them  caught  Ernie's  fancy.  Business  was 
to  him  the  dullest  of  penances.  He  was  sure  he 
wasn't  cut  out  for  business.  The  boys  confirmed  his 
feeling  about  this.  Business  was  all  very  well  for 
some  people,  but  fine,  choice  spirits,  creatures  of  the 
air,  were  never  meant  for  hacking. 

Then  came  a  night  when  Slaughter  Levinsky  must 
celebrate  a  scoop. 

It  was  a  Night. 

By  nine  o'clock  Ernie  has  passed  his  own  limit 
of  one  over  the  eight,  but  he  chuckled  at  his  old 
caution.  He  could  go  on  for  ever  like  this.  Good 
Sports.  His  words  came  with  difliculty,  and  he 
had  to  move  his  lips  with  deliberation.  Things 
tightened  up,  and  objects  stood  out  in  shocking  pro- 
file. Charlie's  face,  now  he  came  to  look  at  it,  was 
one  of  the  handsomest  he'd  ever  seen.  Like  a 
statue's.  And  what  a  figure  he  had.  And  how  he 
could  hold  it.  Always  his  glass  was  empty,  and  al- 
ways he  was  crying — "Now  come  on,  boys!  With 
me!" 

After  four  more,  a  change  took  place  in  the  na- 
ture of  things.  The  corners  of  the  room  bulged 
and  shifted.  The  room  kept  no  shape  for  long. 
The  ceiling  spun.    The  floor  rocked.    Nausea  hov- 


IN  THE  STREET  CALLED  QUEER      233 

ered  about  him.  Silly  tunes  sang  in  his  head.  Things 
grew  to  monstrous  height,  yet  seemed  to  be  fading 
away.  Bar  seemed  to  be  bigger  than  usual.  Every- 
body seemed  to  be  a  long  way  from  him,  and  the 
bar  had  moved.  When  he  stretched  his  arm  to  put 
his  glass  down  he  couldn't  reach  it,  and  the  glass 
smashed.  He  tried  to  pick  it  up,  and  fell.  Men. 
helped  him  up  and  in  helping  him  up  knocked  an- 
other glass  over.  They  laughed.  Ernie  laughed. 
Damn  funny.  Picked  him  up,  and  knocked  glass 
over.  Talk  about  laugh.  Then  old  Glossop  began 
to  tell  a  story.  Charlie  lolloped  against  the  bar. 
Levinsky  stood  swaying,  feet  wide  apart.  George 
stood  bent  at  a  perilous  angle,  grinning  amiably  at 
the  world.  They  stood  in  the  centre  of  a  violet 
cloud,  through  which  glimmered  the  wide  features 
of  old  Glossop.  He'd  never  liked  old  Glossop.  Sar- 
castic sort  o'  fellow,  y'know.  Jus'  'cos  ev'body 
couldn't  drink  like  'e  could — passed  remarks.  He 
wouldn't  have  it.  He'd  tick  him  orf.  Who  was 
old  Glossop,  anyway. 

He  got  up  from  the  lounge,  and  swayed  towards 
them,  opening  the  circle  with  a  lurch.  There  were 
strident  protests  of  "'Ere  I  say!"  and  cackles  of 
laughter.     He  ignored  them  and  fixed  Mr.  Glossop. 

*'Mis'r  Glossop — 'swun  thing  I've  alwis  wonnid 
say  t'you,  Mis'r  Glossop,  you're  a  damn  sonofabitch. 
'Ad's  what  yew  are.  See?  Jus'  thought  Ed  tell 
yer.     See?     'M.  'M."     He  swayed.     Mr.  Glossop 


234  THE  LONDON  SPY 

swayed  with  him.  He  hardly  knew  how  to  take  the 
affront.  He  couldn't  be  sure  he  had  heard  aright. 
He  stared  benignly  upon  Ernie.  Then  he  jerked 
his  head  so  suddenly  that  his  hat  flew  back  and  off. 
He  groped  for  it.  Somebody  found  it  and  put  it 
on  the  wrong  way  round.  Mr.  Glossop  turned  to 
thank  him,  effusively,  for  his  kindness,  and  lost 
his  way  in  the  circle.  He  turned  round  twice.  Then 
he  remembered  something. 

"Ah,  there  y'are,  Ernie — Ernie — 'Squite  right 
what  you  said.  I  am.  And  proud  of  it.  'Ere — me 
and  you  understand  one  another.  You  an'  me'll  sit 
together,  'ave  quiet  li'l  drink.  Leave  these  ignor- 
ant swine." 

He  pushed  Ernie  to  the  lounge,  and  they  had 
doubles.  The  electric  lights  of  the  bar,  which  had 
once  been  poppy-points,  were  now  great  blazing  suns. 
They  went  reeling  through  chaos.  The  nausea 
passed,  and  Ernie  moved  into  the  next  stage  of  well- 
being.  He  began  to  recognise  now  that  he  wasn't 
himself,  but  he  was  quite  content.  He  was  some- 
body much  better.  A  new  man,  in  fact.  The  eve- 
ning was  only  just  beginning. 

He  had  two  more  with  Mr.  Glossop.  .  .  . 

Then  his  peace  was  suddenly  disturbed.  Men 
were  round  him,  standing  over  him.  He  was  on  the 
floor.     They  were  pulling  him  up. 

"Wassamatter — eh?  Siddown  all  of  yeh.  Sid- 
down.    Lessavanother.    'Smy  turn." 


IN  THE  STREET  CALLED  QUEER      235 

"  'Ere — who's  going  to  see  this  dam  fool  'ome. 
Who  knows  where  'e  lives?" 

"  'At's  all  right.  I  know.  Me  and  George'll  take 
im. 

They  gathered  round  and  lifted  him  up,  and 
though  he  fought  them,  and  protested  against  homev 
George  and  Charlie  carried  him  out.  Between  them, 
they  bandy-chaired  him  home  to  his  father,  who 
was  sitting  up  for  him.  His  father  took  him  in  and 
carried  him  upstairs. 

Next  morning  there  was  a  scene.  The  old  man 
began  to  perceive  his  ways  and  their  probable  end, 
and  the  argument  ended  in  a  spasm  of  severity. 
Cash  allowance  was  cut  off  from  that  day.  With- 
out cash,  thought  the  old  man,  he  must  surely  come 
to  heel. 

But  he  didn't.  He  was  too  deep  in  "the  life** 
to  climb  out  at  a  warning  cry. 

Without  money  he  was  at  a  loss,  but  work  held  no 
bright  invitation.  He  stood  outside  saloons,  before 
and  during  opening  hours,  pondering  and  torturing 
himself  to  think  up  means  of  getting  money  and  tast- 
ing again  the  convivial  life.  But  for  weeks  he  could 
think  of  nothing.  Between  meal-times  he  mooned 
miserably  about  the  streets,  smoking  the  cheap  cig- 
arettes bought  with  the  sixpence  a  day  that  his  father 
allowed  him.  Soon  he  came  to  accept  a  drink  from 
anybody  who  offered  it.  And  when  a  man  does 
that.  .  .  . 


236  THE  LONDON  SPY 

But  then  an  idea  came  to  him — slowly  and  quietly 
as  such  ideas  come.  An  idea  with  money  in  it.  After 
a  few  days  of  make-believe  hesitation  he  paid  a 
visit  to  a  police-station  in  the  district.  He  came 
away  with  money. 

"And  look  here,"  said  the  inspector.  He  passed  a 
hand  across  his  mouth,  as  one  wiping  away  an  offen- 
sive taste.  He  was  a  man  of  probity,  who  preferred 
to  do  his  work  by  the  rules  of  the  game,  and  disliked 
the  sometimes  necessary  safety-play.  "Now  the 
business  is  done  let  me  tell  you  that  you're  the  smell- 
iest little  skunk  I  ever  met." 

"'Ere— what?" 

"What  I  said.  I  want  those  boys  bad.  They're 
wrong  'uns,  all  of  'em.  But  they've  got  a  Bottom 
Line.  There's  one  thing  none  of  'em's  ever  done 
yet;  none  of  'em's  ever  sold  a  pal.  Yew — yew  ain't 
a  wrong  'un.  Yew  ain't  got  the  pluck  for  that. 
You're  a  skunk — that's  what  yew  are." 

"No,  but  ..." 

"None  o'  your  back  answers.  Else  I'll  .  .  .  Good 
night,  Judas." 

Ernie  left  that  station  with  a  creeping  skin.  Next 
day  as  he  went  about  the  streets,  various  acquaint- 
ances passed  him  or  overtook  him.  Those  who 
were  alone  looked  the  other  way.  Those  in  couples 
looked  at  one  another,  and  words  passed  between 
them  that  twisted  their  lips.  His  money  made  him 
free  of  the  bars,  and  he  made  for  one.    In  a  corner 


IN  THE  STREET  CALLED  QUEER      237 

stood  two  or  three  men  he  knew.  He  took  his  glass 
and  went  up  to  them.  In  a  concerted  movement, 
each  man  of  that  group  drank  up  and  went  out. 
Ernie's  legs  went  to  water,  and  his  face  hurt  him. 
All  that  day  and  night  he  drank  and  drank  and 
drank.  And  in  the  drunken  sleep  that  followed  he 
had  a  dream.   .  .  . 

In  the  morning  he  went  back  to  Inspector  Terri- 
ton,  sick  and  remorseful,  and  offered  him  the  re- 
mains of  the  money.  And  Territon  brushed  him 
aside  and  told  him  to  go  and  hang  himself. 

That  was  the  end  of  Ernie.  When  I  last  saw 
him,  stale-drunk  in  a  Bethnal  Green  bar,  he  was 
telling  a  bewildered  stranger  a  rambling  story  of 
how,  two  thousand  years  ago,  he  betrayed  a  man  in 
a  garden  to  his  enemies. 


—IX— 
IN  THE  STREETS  OF  THE  FAR  EAST 

IT  was  in  the  bar  of  the  "Town  of  Ramsgate," 
by  Wapping  Old  Stairs,  that  Monk  and  I  met 
the  man  from  the  Port  of  London  Authority.  It 
was  a  fruitful  meeting.  It  turned  our  sauntering 
afternoon  into  hot  hours  of  experience.  For,  by 
the  agency  of  our  friend,  we  toured  all  the  treasure- 
houses  of  the  London  Docks,  and  finished  in  the 
wine-vaults,  where  hours  of  opening  are  not  con- 
sidered; and  that  visit  to  the  wine-vaults  sent  us  to 
Canning  Town  and  me  to  an  adventure. 

True  to  the  Cockney's  habit  of  ignoring  the  show- 
places  of  London,  I  had  never  seen  the  inside  of  the 
London  Docks,  though  I  had  known  the  streets  about 
its  walls  from  childhood.  It  is  a  little  town  by  it- 
self. Every  commodity  that  is  brought  into  Eng- 
land has  its  warehouses  here,  and  every  job  that  men 
can  do  has  its  "shop"  here.  There  are  the  car- 
penter's shop,  the  turner's  shop,  the  wheelwright's 
shop,  the  blacksmith's  shop,  the  chain-maker's  shop. 
There  are  the  dried-fruit  warehouse,  the  pulse  and 
bean  warehouse,  the  tea  warehouse,  the  sugar  ware- 
house, the  grain  warehouse,  the  wool  warehouse,  the 
spice  warehouse,  the  ivory  and  hides  warehouse,  the 


238 


IN  THE  STREETS  OF  THE  FAR  EAST   239 

drug  warehouse,  the  tobacco  warehouse,  and  the 
chilled  meat  warehouse.  It  is  the  stomach  of  Lon- 
don. 

You  may  walk  through  groves  of  haricot  and  soya 
beans,  through  lanes  of  currants,  over  fields  of  tea 
and  sugar,  and  amid  forests  of  tobacco  and  dark 
undergrowths  of  wool.  Here  are  clusters  of  ivory, 
wrought  and  in  the  tusk;  tables  laden  with  rare 
spices;  chunks  of  coral  and  buckets  of  quicksilver. 
You  may  punch  bales  of  greasy  wool.  You  may 
tread  on  half-inch  layers  of  sugar.  You  may  crush 
thousands  of  currants  underfoot  and  walk  almost 
ankle-deep  in  haricots.  Currants  and  haricots  are 
good  food,  and  are  not  too  cheap,  but  at  the  docks, 
when  a  bag  has  burst  and  scattered  its  contents,  the 
correct  thing  is  to  tread  them  into  the  floor.  Any 
dockman  scraping  up  a  handful  of  dusty  currants  to 
take  home  for  a  pudding  for  the  kids,  would  find 
himself  at  Thames  Police  Court.  They  call  it  theft. 
So  we  did  as  we  were  told,  and  trod  them  in,  and  I 
made  an  effort  at  calculating  how  many  tons  of  good 
food  were  thus  wasted  every  month. 

From  the  sequestered  quiet  of  the  store-houses, 
and  their  challenging  odours,  we  were  hurried  to  the 
carpenter's  shop.  Its  smell  was  dry  and  drab;  it 
rang  with  demoniac  noise  and  energy.  A  dozen 
saws,  big  and  little,  hand  and  machine,  were  going 
at  top  speed.  Lathes  were  humming.  Belts  were 
whizzing.    Thence  we  wandered  to  Pier  Head,  for 


240  THE  LONDON  SPY 

the  breeze,  dazed  with  plenitude  and  the  sight  of 
too  much  of  everything, 

London  Docks  are  London  In  little  and  trade  in 
big.  It  is  the  pantry  of  Brobdingnag,  and  the  small 
human  eye  can  receive  no  clear  Impression  of  Its 
business;  only  a  blurred  sensation  of  mountainous 
movement  and  tremendous  bulk.  The  spirit  of  the 
immediate  present  Is  Its  guide.  It  is  not  working  for 
posterity;  It  has  no  truck  with  the  dry  bones  of  the 
past.  It  lives  and  labours  for  this  week,  and  all  its 
magnificent  machinery  moves  for  the  purpose  of  now. 
It  Is  a  museum  of  the  passing  things  of  to-day. 

But  then  we  came  to  the  wine-vaults,  and  there  we 
found  peace  and  quiet.  There  is  no  riot  or  clamour 
in  the  wine-vaults;  all  Is  subdued.  The  vaults  are  a 
sort  of  school,  and  here  lie  thousands  of  wines, 
quietly  growing  up  and  growing  in  grace. 

At  the  top  of  a  small  flight  of  stone  steps,  our 
friend  handed  us  over  to  George,  and  with  George 
we  passed  from  strong  sunlight  Into  dark  arches. 
What  light  there  was  came  from  small  electric  bulbs 
embedded  in  the  roofs,  and  a  sweet  cool  smell  arose 
from  the  earth  at  our  feet.  On  a  small  counter 
by  the  door  were  ranged  a  number  of  torches — ■ 
flat  arms  of  wood  with  little  spirit  lamps  at  the  end, 
in  shape  something  like  an  opium  pipe.  They  are 
fashioned  in  this  way,  so  that  you  may  hold  them 
to  light  your  feet,  for  the  long  corridors  of  the 
vaults   are   lined   with   raised   rails    for   the   easier 


IN  THE  STREETS  OF  THE  FAR  EAST   241 

trundling  of  the  barrels,  and  as  the  floor  is  densely 
spread  with  tan  these  rails  are  sometimes  obscured. 
Each  of  us  was  given  a  torch,  and  when  I  came 
to  inspect  mine  I  found  that  it  was  similar  in  every 
point  to  those  in  use  at  these  very  vaults  a  hundred 
years  ago.  You  will  see  them  depicted  in  an  old 
colour-print,  by  Robert  Cruikshank,  of  the  London 
Dock  vaults. 

From  the  entrance-door,  corridors  run  in  every 
direction,  miles  of  them,  each  fully  lined  with  barrels 
of  the  noblest  sort;  and  you  may  stand  there  and 
look  down  vistas  of  Oporto,  of  Jamaica,  of  Bur- 
gundy, of  Champagne,  of  Xeres,  of  Moselle,  of  Hol- 
land, of  Lombardy,  of  Tokay,  of  Canary,  of  the 
glens  of  Scotland  and  the  valleys  of  the  Rhine  and 
the  Chateaux  of  the  Gironde.  The  heart  first  leaps 
at  the  prospect;  then  fails.  It  is  too  much  of 
a  good  thing.  But  when  George  led  us  in  solemn 
file  down  the  corridor,  and  into  a  dim  alcove,  and 
there  got  busy  with  a  mallet,  and  then  held  up  against 
the  pinched  blue  flame  of  his  lamp  a  glass  of  living 
ruby  that  glowed  through  the  darkness — then,  we 
did  respond.  That  was  a  moment  worth  holding, 
and  George  had  a  sense  of  its  value.  He  did  not 
move,  but  stood  bowed  under  the  lowering  roof  of 
that  cool  recess,  holding  the  glass  before  us,  who,  in 
our  turn,  stood  silent.  Our  torches  dropped  to  our 
feet.  No  light  came  from  them  above  the  curve  of 
the  barrel,  but  in  the  gloom  that  wine  shone  and 


242  THE  LONDON  SPY 

gave  off  light.  With  proper  gesture  George  handed 
the  glass  to  Monk,  and  filled  two  others.  We  drank. 
The  wine  was  of  the  cool,  suave,  cathedral  quality  of 
the  place:  a  wine  to  be  drunk  in  silence;  a  wine  that 
did  not  sing,  but  chanted;  a  wine  of  purity  and  ele- 
gance, of  gaiety  and  wisdom.  We  drank  it  in  full 
recognition  of  its  quality,  and  then  talked  of  it  in 
murmurs,  until  George  led  us  on  down  the  corridors. 

After  many  turns  his  mood  changed.  Down  here 
he  had  a  vermouth.  Not  merely  a  vermouth,  but  a 
VERMOUTH.  Aha!  No  solemnity  about  that. 
Never,  he  said,  was  there  such  vermouth  in  such 
condition  as  this  vermouth.  We  must  taste  it.  We 
made  ourselves  agreeable,  and  certainly  the  ver- 
mouth was  unlike  any  other  that  I  had  tasted.  Nor 
have  I  ever  found  any  like  it  outside  those  vaults. 
To  whom  it  belonged,  whose  barrels  wfe  were  break- 
ing into,  I  do  not  know;  but  if  ever  I  find  out,  I  will 
make  amends  for  my  share  in  the  ullage  by  ordering 
a  dozen.  George  led  us  farther.  He  had  an  Amon- 
tillado down  there.  Clearly  he  was  proud  of  that 
Amontillado.  .  .  . 

We  followed  him. 

Our  firefly  torches  fluttered  at  our  feet.  Now  and 
then  a  rat  scampered,  leaving  a  filigree  trail  in  the 
tan. 

I  know  not  how  many  miles  we  walked.  George's 
Instructions  were  to  follow  him,  and  we  followed 
him,  resting  only  at  his  bidding.  The  spirit  of  the 


IN  THE  STREETS  OF  THE  FAR  EAST   243 

place  wrought  upon  me — the  darkness  and  the  damp 
and  the  silence.  The  barrels  were  so  many  mon- 
sters, lurking  in  corners  to  spring  upon  us.  I  felt 
that  we  should  never  get  out,  but  go  on  for  ever, 
wandering  round  and  round  hundreds  of  miles  of 
narrow  passages,  following  George.  I  wished  I 
hadn't  had  that  vermouth.  Or  perhaps  it  was  the 
sherry.  An  hour  passed,  and  we  were  still  follow- 
ing George,  Monk  was  agreeable  to  following  him 
all  night.  I  think  I  was  lagging,  for  George  called 
to  me. 

"Come  on,  mister.  You're  all  right.  Keep  behind 
me.  Never  mind  the  rats;  they  won't  fly  at  you. 
You're  all  right.  You  ought  to  see  the  business  I've 
'ad  with  some  people.  Cuh !  I  could  write  a  book 
about  what  I've  seen  down  here.  .  .  .  Follow 
me!" 

We  followed  him.   .  .  . 

Next  thing  I  remember  is  surrendering  my  torch 
at  the  door,  and  climbing  up  the  steps  into  a  burst 
of  sharp  sunlight,  which  momentarily  dazzled  me. 
Monk,  too,  was  dazzled  by  it,  and  was  walking  softly 
towards  the  wall  .  .  .  following  George  .  .  . 
until  he  discovered  that  George  was  no  longer  with 
us.  Whereupon  we  pulled  ourselves  together,  and 
got  into  Pennington  Street,  and  so  to  Commercial 
Road.  There  we  agreed  to  take  a  'bus  ride  to  Can- 
ning Town,  on  pretence  of  looking  up  old  friends, 
but  really  to  clear  our  heads. 


244  THE  LONDON  SPY 

I  do  not  know  that  the  most  exquisite  wine  that 
the  country  holds  is  a  fitting  prelude  to  the  gritty- 
irritations  of  Canning  Town,  or  that  Canning  Town 
is  an  apt  pendant  to  the  wine.  But  days  seldom  per- 
mit themselves  to  be  governed  by  an  arbitrary  aes- 
thetic. To  Canning  Town  we  went,  and  perhaps 
the  very  incongruity  of  it  mated  not  disagreeably 
with  the  earlier  adventure.  Certainly  the  harum- 
scarum  'bus  ride  over  the  pot-holes  and  jutting  tram- 
lines of  Commercial  Road  cleared  our  heads,  and 
by  the  time  we  reached  the  Iron  Bridge  we  were 
ready  for  anything. 

Canning  Town  is  true  East  End.  Its  pulse  and 
temper  are  deep  and  wayward.  It  drums  barbari- 
cally  to  the  rhythms  of  Alsatia.  Here  is  a  bit  of 
old  untamed  London;  a  whiff  of  Tudor  Bankside; 
and  though,  like  all  East  End  parishes,  It  has  its 
Missions  and  Its  Settlements,  it  hasn't  yet  surren- 
dered to  them.  Respectability  has  pricked  it,  but 
hasn't  wholly  blasted  It.  It  Is  to-day  what  the  nearer 
East  was  fifty  years  ago.  Here  are  big-bodied,  foot- 
fisted  men  and  roaring  Girls.  The  men  are  slow, 
elephantine.  The  girls,  lusty  and  comely  after  their 
rude  fashion,  are  full  of  the  headlong  neck-and-neck 
spirit  of  the  streets;  and  even  the  flirtatious  females 
of  thirteen  walk  like  colts.  Here  are  the  "Imperial," 
and  its  adjoining  cinema,  which,  only  a  year  or  so 
ago,  was  the  last  of  the  tavern  music-halls.  And 
here  is  the  serpentine  Iron  Bridge,  and  the  vast  dis- 


IN  THE  STREETS  OF  THE  FAR  EAST    245 

ordered  plain  of  water  and  yards  and  roofs  and 
chimneys  that  it  bestrides. 

It  knows  crashing  days  and  vast  midnights.  Giant 
Industry  has  this  territory  in  thrall,  and  his  foot- 
falls are  keenly  heard  and  his  footmarks  sharply 
seen.  From  the  Bridge  you  look  across  a  grotesque 
allotment  of  toil,  breathing  and  smoking  and  rumb- 
ling; and  upon  waste  patches  where  the  monster 
has  passed  and  left  only  wounds.  It  is  a  wilderness 
shot  with  glowering  colour  and  ringing  with  the 
voices  of  the  pilgrims  of  the  night.  Around  you  lie 
the  workyards  and  the  water;  beyond,  blue  mysteries 
strung  with  scarves  of  raw  light  and  knots  of 
shadow.  It  is  one  of  the  widest  prospects  of  East 
London. 

We  made  a  visit  to  the  Imperial  for  the  sake  of 
old  times,  and  then  wandered  down  Victoria  Dock 
Road,  and  through  its  byways.  There  are  queer 
houses  in  these  byways,  and  queer  shops.  They 
hark  back.  They  sell  foods  that  have  long  ceased 
to  be  popular  in  other  parts.  They  sell  shocking 
musical  instruments — the  accordion,  the  melodeon, 
the  ocarina  and  the  Jew's  harp — now  supplanted,  in 
well-conducted  homes,  by  the  gramophone.  You 
will  find,  too,  second-hand  batches  of  the  old  penny 
dreadfuls — these  also  supplanted  by  the  less  dread- 
ful and  perhaps  less  subversive  publications  of  the 
big  syndicates.  You  will  find  here  the  old  Edwin 
Brett   journals,    and    gashly   periodicals    from    ob- 


246  THE  LONDON  SPY 

scure  presses.  I  acquired  a  bob's-worth  of  these, 
and  good  ding-dong  reading  they  make  for  mid-win- 
ter evenings  by  the  chimney  corner.  The  very  titles 
give  a  prickle  to  the  skin — "The  Black  Monk's 
Curse,"  "The  Boy  Bandit,"  "Blueskin,"  "The  Vam- 
pire's Bride,"  "The  Wild  Boys  of  London,"  "The 
Skeleton  Crew,"  "Tyburn  Dick,"  "Starlight  Nell," 
"The  MoonHght  Riders,"  "The  Pretty  Girls  of 
London." 

Rough  stuff,  and  not,  I  think,  altogether  suitable 
reading  for  the  young;  yet  it  seems  that  in  course  of 
Its  refinement  the  "dreadful"  of  to-day  has  lost  zest. 
It  is  clean,  wholesome  stuff,  written  with  some  care; 
yet  the  essential  ingredient  of  hot-footed  devilry  is 
missing.  The  heroes  are  tepid  and  morally  punctil- 
ious. They  stand  for  law  and  order,  and  defeat  the 
cunning  and  the  lawless  with  many  virtues,  where 
the  older  heroes  were  against  the  law  and  the  vil- 
lains were  of  Bow  Street.  Deplorable  ethics,  I 
know,  but  what's  a  penny  dreadful  If  It  Isn't  dread- 
ful? Heroes  should  have  no  business  with  scruples; 
they  should  be  rebels  always. 

The  old  defunct  feast  of  St.  Valentine  Is  also 
honoured,  In  a  twisted  way,  In  these  little  shops; 
and  during  the  month  of  February  their  windows  are 
made  hideous  by  high-coloured  representations  of 
women  with  asses'  heads  or  padlocked  lips  and  other 
deformities.  With  these  atrocious  missives  the 
youth  of  the  district  work  off  old  scores  against  un- 


IN  THE  STREETS  OF  THE  FAR  EAST   247 

friendly  associates.  They  are  stabs  in  the  back; 
delivered  to  the  poor  victim  with  the  evil  glee  of  the 
anonymous-letter  maniac.  There  are  pictures  of 
squinting  eyes,  of  club  feet,  of  hare  lips,  each  with 
its  malicious  verse;  and  pictures  of  babies,  with 
verse  suggesting  that  father  would  do  well  to  look, 
into  its  true  parentage.  One  of  these  shot  into  a 
family  circle,  or  sent  to  a  sensitive  girl,  may  easily 
poison  mutual  trust,  or  lead  to  extreme  action. 
Nowhere  else  in  London,  I  believe,  does  the  custom 
persist,  and  I  hope  that  even  the  strong  stomach 
of  Canning  Town  will  soon  turn  against  It. 

At  eight  o'clock  I  picked  up  Fred,  at  Tidal  Basin, 
and  through  him  got  into  trouble.  He  said  there 
were  to  be  some  doings  at  Bow,  if  we  cared  to  come 
along.  We  did  care,  and  strolled  with  him  up 
Brunswick  Road.  In  a  skittle-alley  at  Bow  we 
rested  and  refreshed  ourselves,  and  sat  watching  him 
collect  the  doings.  Fred  Is  by  profession  a  journey- 
man tailor,  but  he  has  far  too  much  spirit  for  one 
ordinary  man;  I  could  not  face  a  night  out  with 
nine  of  him.  When  he  Isn't  tailoring  he  plays  skit- 
tles, horses,  billiards,  and  other  little  games,  and 
sometimes  does  a  bit  of  snide-pitching.  He's  a 
twister;  yet  in  some  of  his  twists  and  turns  he  dis- 
closes a  companlonableness  that  immediately  at- 
tracts. There's  no  nonsense  about  Fred.  He  puts 
up  no  defence.  Unlike  our  company-promoters,  he 
knows  that  stealing  is  wrong  and  that  he  is  not  as 


248  THE  LONDON  SPY 

good  as  other  men.  He'll  tell  you  with  engaging 
candour  how  he  did  somebody  down  the  other  day, 
and  half  an  hour  later  he  will  do  you  down  In  ex- 
actly the  same  way,  and  then  call  you  a  fool. 

'*Well,  wodyeh  grumbling  about?  I  warned  yeh, 
dl'n'  I?  Yeh  can't  say  I  dl'n'  warn  yeh.  Fair  do's 
now  ...  I  warned  yeh." 

If  Fred  were  to  put  the  gusto  and  persistence  Into 
his  work  that  he  puts  Into  his  play,  there  would 
be  a  great  outcry  In  the  tailors'  union.  But  Fred 
only  works  when  "things"  are  bad.  He  goes  every- 
where. He  Is  to  be  seen  at  Alexandra  Park,  at 
Hurst  Park,  at  Kempton  Park,  at  Football  matches, 
at  bllllards-rooms  In  remote  suburbs,  at  bowling- 
greens,  :X  whist  tournaments,  and  at  Brighton  on 
Sundays,  Wherever  the  doings  may  be,  you  bet 
Fred  Is  there  to  snaffle  his  share  of  them.  When 
Fred  and  I  first  knew  one  another,  we  were  much 
of  a  kind;  and  as  I  remember  the  old  Fred,  so  I 
find  little  In  him  that  offends.  He  was  then  the  usual 
London  lad — alert,  audacious,  plucky,  and.  If  with 
knowledge  of  guile,  himself  guileless.  He  has  gone 
far  since  then.  He  has  branched  out.  His  audacity 
could  not  let  him  rest  on  the  tailor's  board.  So  he 
fought  circumstance  with  pluck  and  cunning,  and 
now  carries  himself  with  an  air;  an  ignoble  air,  cer- 
tainly, but  not  craven  or  shifty.  He  knows  he  is  a 
Bad  Man,  as  other  men  know  that  they  are  clerks 
or  'bus-conductors;  and  that  is  all  there  is  to  it.    His 


IN  THE  STREETS  OF  THE  FAR  EAST    249 

spry  figure,  his  brilliant  eyes,  and  his  steady  good- 
humour  make  him  friends  even  among  his  victims. 
He  is  Old  Fred  .  .  .  with  a  shrug  and  a  nod  .  .  ., 
a  very  Lad  of  a  twister. 

After  he  had  played  several  games,  he  said  he 
would  show  us  what  a  good  time  was  like.  He  kept 
his  promise.  He  kept  it  so  well  that  at  midnight, 
round  about  Old  Ford,  I  lost  Monk  and  Fred  lost 
me.  As  it  seemed  useless  to  attempt  a  search,  and 
as  my  shouts  received  no  answer,  I  stayed  where  I 
was — near  a  'bus  terminus — and  finished  a  queer  day 
with  a  queer  encounter. 

I  hung  about  the  deserted  terminus  some  long 
minutes  without  any  sign  of  traffic  or  Company's 
men,  and  was  debating  whether  I  should  foot  it 
home,  and  chance  finding  a  taxi  on  the  other  side  of 
St.  Paul's,  when  a  figure  slouched  from  a  side-street 
and  hung  about  at  the  corner.  It  was  a  lank  figure 
in  a  disreputable  mackintosh  and  a  cap  pulled  well 
forward.     After  some  shuffling  it  spoke. 

"Waitin'  f'r  a  'bus,  mate?  You  won't  git  one 
now.    They  all  gorn." 

"Oh?"  I  said.  "That's  nasty.  Looks  like  a  nice 
long  tramp." 

"Got  far  to  go?" 

"North  London." 

"Cuh — that's  a  good  step.     Fond  o'  walkin'?" 

He  seemed  chatty  and  companionable,  and  as  I 
had  all  night  for  my  journey,  and  was  in  the  chatty 


250  THE  LONDON  SPY 

mood  myself,  I  encouraged  him.  We  talked  of  get- 
ting stranded  in  out  of  the  way  places,  of  the  annoy- 
ances of  things,  and  of  this  and  of  that.  He  seemed 
by  his  figure  an  overgrown  youth,  but  he  talked  with 
a  certain  dash  of  experience.  We  stood  away  from 
the  lamp,  and  the  peak  of  his  cap  was  pulled  down. 
I  could  not  see  the  upper  part  of  his  face.  I  saw 
only,  and  that  in  shadow,  a  thin,  characterless  mouth. 
The  voice  was  the  irresolute  uneven  voice  of  a  youth 
who  wanted  to  talk  and  was  not  used  to  company. 
He  seemed  the  kind  of  amiable  creature  whom  one 
passes  over  with  a  half-conscious  glance  and  forgets. 

It  is  a  common  type.  He  may  be  as  big  as  other 
men,  and  talk  as  loudly,  yet  always  he  is  ineffectual, 
never  can  he  command  attention.  He  never  stands 
out.  Even  when  he  boldly  addresses  people  he  has 
trouble  in  capturing  their  interest.  And  this  type 
always  wants  to  be  noticed,  and  will  even  thrust 
himself  forward  and  try,  weakly,  to  assert  himself. 

Sometimes  he  will  even  fall  into  crime,  not  from 
criminal  intent,  but  purely  from  desire  to  redeem  his 
self-respect,  and  to  compel  the  consideration  and 
respect  that  are  given  freely  to  other  and  less  not- 
able men.  I  once  knew  a  man  of  this  type  who 
committed  a  murder.  He  did  not  commit  the  mur- 
der with  the  motive  of  advertisement;  it  was  a  de- 
liberate crime  of  revenge.  But  after  the  first  shock 
of  the  event,  he  realised  that  he  was  now  a  person 


IN  THE  STREETS  OF  THE  FAR  EAST   251 

of  importance  to  the  whole  country;  and  he  made  no 
attempt  to  bolt.  He  wanted  (as  he  confessed  when 
caught)  to  see  how  his  acquaintances  would  behave 
towards  him  when,  they  knew  who  he  was.  Yet  he 
gained  nothing  by-  it.  For,  during  the  days  when 
the  hunt  was  up,  he  remained  the  same  colourless 
personality;  his  bold  deed  had  lent  him  nothing  of 
character  or  force.  Even  when  a  group  who  knew 
him  were  discussing  the  matter,  and  he  made  some 
comments,  they  paid  no  attention  to  him.  Even 
when,  driven  to  anger  by  this  last  rebuff,  he  seized 
for  one  moment  their  attention  with  "Look  'ere — 
let  me  tell  yeh  somethink.  It's  me  they're  looking 
for.  /  done  the  Gravel  Lane  murder."  Even  then, 
when  he  expected  a  glorious  moment  of  uproar  and 
confusion  and  wonder  centred  about  his  person;  even 
then,  they  gave  him  only  an  instant's  glance,  laughed, 
and  turned  again  to  their  own  talk.  Even  with  the 
horrid  truth,  he  couldn't  impress. 

Well,  this  youth  seemed  to  me,  in  the  little  I 
could  see  of  him,  and  in  his  scrappy  inconsequent 
talk,  just  such  another, — thin  and  lack-lustre.  His 
walk  was  a  long-legged  shamble.  He  assumed  the 
casual  air  with  too  much  diligence.  He  threw  off 
a  too-large  air  of  world-knowledge.  His  wide  un- 
certain mouth  gaped  indecently.  He  wasn't  drunk, 
and  I  think  he  wasn't  quite  sober.  His  talk  was 
rational,  but — it  left  you  puzzled.     There  seemed 


252  THE  LONDON  SPY 

to  be  something  struggling  underneath  it.  His  man- 
ner, too,  was  furtive,  with  odd  dashes  of  boldness 
and  man-to-manishness.     He  was  an  oaf. 

Then  he  made  a  proposal.  He  had  a  room  round 
about  there,  and  if  I  didn't  feel  like  a  walk  home, 
and  would  take  in  something,  I  could  sit  there  till 
the  early  trams  started — if  I  cared  about  it.  I  hesi- 
tated. I  wasn't  at  all  sure  about  him;  but  he  inter- 
ested me. 

"But,"  I  said,  "it's  too  late  to  get  anything  to 
take  in." 

He  made  a  wide  leave-it-to-me  gesture.  "No,  It 
ain't.    /  know  a  place,  if  you  got  the  money." 

I  went  with  him. 

He  walked  me  across  the  railway  bridge  at  Old 
Ford,  and  down  a  street  to  the  side  door  of  a  shop 
of  some  kind.  Here  he  knocked,  and  whispered  his 
wants.  I  paid  over  the  money  and  a  bottle  was  sup- 
plied. Where  he  took  me  then,  I  don't  know,  for  it 
was  dark  then  and  dark  when  I  left  to  get  the  work- 
men's tram.  But  we  walked  through  a  grove  of 
byways,  and  as  we  walked  I  was  kept  puzzled  as  to 
his  character.  All  this  time  I  still  had  not  fully 
seen  his  face.  Really,  there  was  nothing  to  mark 
him  from  other  men;  and  I  told  myself  that  It  was 
my  fatigue,  the  misty  evening,  the  silence  and  the 
strange  place  that  lent  him  that  something  of  the 
bizarre.  His  queer  manner,  his  nervous  bravado,  is 
a  manner  found  in  many  respectable  people.     But 


IN  THE  STREETS  OF  THE  FAR  EAST    253 

with  him  I  was  still  sensible  of  something  I  could 
not  place.  .   .  . 

At  last  we  got  to  his  house,  and  once  in  his  room 
I  knew  my  man  and  his  character.  The  little  touches 
that  had  baffled  me  were  explained.  With  one  foot 
over  the  step  I  halted,  and  stared.  I  felt  a  sudden 
chill,  as  one  coming,  in  the  dark,  into  contact  with 
a  nameless  damp  substance.  .  .  .  He  caught  my 
look,  and,  holding  the  bottle,  squirmed  and  giggled 
at  me  with  wide  toothy  mouth.  Hanging  on  the 
wall,  by  either  side  of  the  fireplace  were,  at  a  ran- 
dom count,  between  twenty  and  thirty  plaits,  curls, 
tresses,  cuttings  of  hair,  and  hair-ribbons;  gold, 
brown,  black  and  auburn. 

"Lookin'  at  my  collection?  Pritty,  ain't  they? 
Them  golden  ones — eh?" 

He  threw  off  his  cap  and  I  saw  his  face  clearly. 
His  diffidence  of  the  streets  was  gone  and  the  face 
was  itself.  It  was  a  flaccid  face,  with  low  listless 
eyes.  It  rose  to  a  point  at  the  forehead.  It  was  the 
face  of  a  fish. 

I  felt  I  must  say  something,  or  do  something. 
"But  what  the  devil — how — " 

He  grinned  again  and  opened  the  bottle.  He 
poured  himself  a  large  dose,  and  drank  heavily;  then 
pointed  to  a  wicker  chair.  He  seemed  not  at  all 
abashed  at  letting  a  stranger  into  his  secret. 

His  most  notable  trait  was  a  sort  of  private  sup- 
pressed glee  which  would  burst  from  the  corners  of 


254!  THE  LONDON  SPY 

his  eyes  and  lips  in  the  fleeting  moments  when  he 
cast  a  glance  at  his  "collection."  Outside  that  room 
he  would  have  passed  anywhere  as  the  amiable  gawk 
I  had  thought  him.  Inside  .  .  .  When  he  had  had 
several  goes  from  the  bottle  he  began  to  talk,  not 
haltingly,  as  before,  but  in  gushes  of  confidence  and 
confession.  He  talked  of  his  souvenirs  as  a  biblio- 
phile talks  of  his  "finds"  In  books.  He  tried  to 
work  me  up  to  share  his  enthusiasm  In  his  hobby, 
as  other  harmless  collectors  will  do. 

"That  one  corst  me  somethink — them  yeller  curls 
wiv  the  blue  ribbon.  I  di'n'  'arf  'ave  a  job  gittin' 
them.  I  see  'er  In  Victoria  Park,  and  followed  'er 
two  hours,  and  on'y  got  me  chance  on  a  'bus  at  Beff- 
nal  Green.  And  that  black  one — I  spent  I  dunno  'ow 
long  In  a  picture-palace  gittin'  that.  .  .  .  It's  a  risky 
business  yeh  know.     I  neely  bin  copped  sometimes." 

He  giggled,  and  went  to  the  wall  and  took  down 
the  tresses,  and  ran  them  through  his  fingers.  He 
stood  posed  before  me,  running  the  tresses  through 
his  fingers.  Slowly,  his  face  bent,  his  hooded  eyes 
half-lit,  he  passed  them  through  his  fingers  and  across 
the  back  of  his  hand;  and  as  he  did  so  something 
seemed  to  creep  about  that  silent  room  and  fill  it 
with  damp  echoes  and  wreathing  shapes  and  the 
slow  bubbling  of  swamps.  His  mind  unfolded  It- 
self before  me  In  coils,  and  put  things  into  my  own 
mind — monstrous  solitudes;  faint  vapours  from  mid- 
night forests;  the  foot  mark  of  the  goat;  the  dim 


IN  THE  STREETS  OF  THE  FAR  EAST  255 

throb  of  drums;  acid  odours.  .  .  .  He  took  down 
others  and  hung  them  over  his  arm,  and  gave  them 
his  venomous  caresses.  He  chuckled.  Thin-faced, 
thin-lipped,  lanky  and  blink-eyed,  he  stood.  His 
dropping  attitudes  and  slow  gestures  uttered  the 
unutterable.  From  time  to  time  he  ejaculated  a  tone- 
less, abrupt  laugh,  as  he  spoke  of  his  captures,  and 
he  had  a  trick  of  writhing  In  his  clothes.  .  .  .  Now 
and  then  he  gibbered. 

As  he  emptied  the  bottle  his  ecstasy  grew.  He 
gave  away  his  darkest  thoughts.  He  spoke,  with  a 
nudge  of  "other  things"  that  he  had  got.  He  nodded 
and  chuckled.  Things  that.  .  .  .  He  was  on  his 
knees,  rummaging  at  something,  when  I  heard  a 
knocker-up  go  down  the  street.  .  .  , 


— X— 

IN  THE  STREET  OF  BEAUTIFUL 
CHILDREN 

I  WAS  ever  of  opinion  that  the  children  of  the 
East  End  are  more  beautiful  and  more  buoy- 
ant than  the  children  of  Kensington  Gardens,  and  I 
think  any  artist  who  knows  his  London  streets  will 
agree  with  me.  East  of  the  Pump  he  will  find  child- 
beauty  in  large  clusters,  in  streetfuls  and  lanefuls, 
but  the  West,  even  in  holiday-time,  will  yield  him 
little.  I  have  before  me  an  exquisite  volume  of 
camera-studies  of  the  child — street-children,  high- 
school  children,  children  of  the  rich  and  children 
of  Lord  This  or  the  Hon.  Mrs.  That;  and  easily 
the  children  of  the  poor  outshine  the  others.  How 
set  and  lifeless  are  our  young  lords  and  honourables. 
Finely  featured  they  are  and  of  elegant  carriage, 
but  repressed,  lustreless;  all  zest  refined  out  of  them; 
consciously  sitting  for  their  portraits.  They  have 
that  dull  distinction  that  goes  with  fitness  and  breed- 
ing. One  appreciates,  but  does  not  admire.  They 
are  products  of  intensive  culture,  like  pedigree  pup- 
pies. They  have  the  air  of  the  colts  of  thorough- 
breds, sleek  and  sound.  But  beauty  Is  wanting. 
For  beauty  cannot  be  bred;  it  happens,  and  visits 
seldom  by  invitation. 

256 


IN  STREET  OF  BEAUTIFUL  CHILDREN    257 

But  turn  the  page,  and  there — how  full  of  urge 
and  animation  and  character  are  the  studies  in  the 
playground,  the  parks  and  the  streets.  Dear, 
rumpled,  knockabout  children,  impudently  posed  in 
the  abandon  of  childhood  or  caught  secretly  in  tense 
moments  of  application.  Here  are  the  proud,  the 
shy,  the  sweet,  the  petulant;  here  are  faces  of  cherubs 
and  homely  kissable  faces;  radiant  limbs  and  won- 
derful curl-laden  heads.  Here  are  big  lustrous  eyes 
and  sparkling  eyes,  and  pensive  eyes,  and  bright 
round  expressive  mouths,  and  quiet  eyes  of  fun; 
and  little  girlhood  in  all  its  wonder  and  grace.  The 
little  girl  of  the  street  is  an  elusive  creature;  not 
quite  a  child  and  not  an  immature  woman.  She  is 
more  than  child  and  less  than  child.  The  boy  we 
know.  He  is  a  man-child,  blunt  and  obvious.  But 
there  are  no  terms  that  hold  the  little  girl — that 
bundle  of  tossing  frocks  and  streaming  hair  and 
candid  eyes,  and  the  strange  grave  beauty  that  has 
bemused  grown  men — Schubert,  Swift,  even  Ruskin. 

In  this  book,  this  beauty  is  joyously  gathered. 
The  collector  has  given  us  a  gallery  of  grace.  He 
shows  us  children  of  all  ages  at  work,  at  play.  In  the 
home.  In  the  gutter,  and  asleep;  good  children  and 
naughty  children,  laughing  children  and  crying  chil- 
dren. The  spirit  of  Spring  irradiates  every  page. 
There  are  little  bare  legs,  and  sweet-curved  stock- 
inged legs,  flower-like  limbs  and  fat  dimpled  limbs. 
There   are   faces   carrying   in   such   profusion   that 


258  THE  LONDON  SPY 

quality  that  we  call  charm  that  even  the  camera 
plate  and  the  page  it  fills  is  suffused  with  it.  It  shines 
from  the  book  straight  into  you.  There  are  torn 
trousers  and  lace  frocks,  rags  and  tatters  and  Sun- 
day Best.  It  is  a  golden  treasury  of  childhood,  and 
my  favourites  are  the  beautiful  figures  of  the  chil- 
dren in  the  poor  streets. 

Often  I  have  wandered  in  those  streets,  and  won- 
dered whether  Shoreditch  or  Poplar,  Homerton  or 
Wapping  held  the  palm  for  lovely  children,  whether 
this  or  that  Council  School  could  outshine  the  others, 
and  whether  the  beauty  was  concentrated  or  scat- 
tered impartially  among  all.  Now  I  have  made 
my  decision.  I  have  found  one  street  which,  above 
all  others,  Is  a  street  of  beautiful  children,  packed 
with  grace  of  form  and  sweet  feature.  I  found 
it  one  morning,  when,  hard-up  and  at  a  loose  end 
for  a  job,  I  took  on  a  round  of  rent-collecting  in 
Stepney.  Coming  to  that  street  after  that  tour  was 
like  coming  upon  a  blessed  green  prospect  after  a 
stony  desert. 

Rent-collecting  Is  not  a  job  that  I  would  lightly 
undertake  again.  It  is  only  a  degree  or  so  more 
pleasant  than  the  job  of  bum-bailiff.  It  Is  at  once 
a  mean  and  a  delicate  business.  Few  can  perform 
it  efl^ciently,  or  would  care  to  perform  it.  Even  the 
tact  and  urbanity  and  command  of  Lord  Curzon 
would  be  severely  tested  by  Its  occasions.  The  good 
rent-collector  needs  to  be  swiftly  adaptable.     He 


IN  STREET  OF  BEAUTIFUL  CHILDREN   259 

must  adjust  his  manner  to  the  peculiar  temper  of 
each  household.  He  must  be  harsh  here,  affable 
there,  man-to-man-like  in  this  street,  sympathetic  in 
that,  and  unbending  in  t'other.  He  must  handle  his 
clients  with  an  easy  hand,  and  must  know  just  where 
pressure  should  be  applied  and  where  relaxed.  He 
should  have  sympathy  for  their  difficulties  and  a 
knowledge  of  all  their  tricks.  .  .  .  He  should  know 
whether  it  is  all  right  to  let  Mrs.  A.  carry  over  yet 
another  week,  and  whether  Mrs.  B.  shall  be  sternly 
admonished  and  threatened  with  immediate  proce- 
dure. 

Apart  from  the  difficulties  of  the  job  itself,  its 
circumstances  are  deeply  disagreeable.  A  tour  of 
the  back-streets  of  Stepney  on  a  wet  Monday  morn- 
ing makes  a  cheerless  start  for  the  week,  and  calls 
up  all  reserves  of  character  and  endurance.  My 
book  took  me  through  hidden  streets  of  distress, 
through  dolorous  alleys  and  dishevelled  squares,  into 
a  world  of  rheumatism  and  the  price  of  bread.  I 
went  through  East-field  Street,  Duckett  Street,  Ocean 
Street,  Dupont  Street,  and  White  Horse  Lane.  It 
was  a  round  of  uncomely  sights  and  staggering 
smells;  broken  hovels,  bare  floors,  and  hilarious 
people. 

A  torrent  of  rain  had  fallen  the  night  before,  and 
every  house  I  visited  delivered  its  chorus  of  indig- 
nant complaint;  and  then  broke  into  long  dry  laugh- 
ter.     "Can't  'elp  seeing  the  funny  side  o'   things, 


260  THE  LONDON  SPY 

y'know."  In  some  cases,  the  husband  had  stayed 
away  from  work  to  have  a  go  at  the  rent-man.  And 
I  couldn't  blame  him.  Ceilings  had  given  way;  beds 
were  damp;  bedrooms  were  dripping  with  water; 
basements  were  flooded;  and  In  them  stood  queru- 
lous people,  angry  for  their  rights,  yet  only  plead- 
ing for  them;  conscious  of  wrongs,  yet  fearing  to 
speak  out,  Instead  of  setting  fire  to  the  whole 
damned  street.  Everywhere  I  heard  the  same  cry 
— "When' re  they  going  to  do  something?  I've  told 
'em  about  it  till  I'm  sick  of  telling  'em.  Just  look  at 
it."  I  learnt  that  day  the  farce  of  the  Rent  Act 
and  the  operations  of  the  Health  Ministry.  The 
Rent  Act  is  a  fine  friend  to  the  slum  landlord.  If 
the  rent  is  in  arrears — and  it  usually  is — he  is  under 
no  compulsion  to  make  repairs.  While  the  house  Is 
in  this  state,  he  cannot  raise  the  rent;  but  then  he 
is  already  doing  very  well  at  present  rates,  and  to 
raise  them  would  probably  mean  that  there  would  be 
no  tenants  for  them.  So  he  lets  the  house  go  on  as 
it  is,  knowing,  cunning  brute,  that  the  husband,  be- 
ing a  man  of  his  hands,  will  probably  fix  up  some 
makeshift  repairs  of  his  own. 

I  was  told  that  the  "Health  People"  had  been 
round  once  or  twice,  but  I  could  hardly  believe  it. 
Many  of  those  houses,  even  to  a  casual,  inexpert 
view,  would  have  been  condemned  by  the  R.  S.  P.  C. 
A.  as  stables.  Water  was  coming  in  through  pane- 
less   windows,   under   the   doors,    through   window- 


IN  STREET  OF  BEAUTIFUL  CHILDREN    261 

mouldings  and  elsewhere.  Rats  were  abundant. 
Clouds  of  flies  buzzed  in  every  room.  Doors  didn't 
fasten.  Fourteen  shillings  a  week  is  the  rent  of  these 
holes.  Some  are  even  let  "furnished"  at  nine  shill- 
ings a  room.  Furnished.  A  broken  bed,  a  mattress, 
blanket  and  pillow,  a  lame  chair,  a  table  and  a  wash- 
stand.  In  each  of  the  tiny  rooms  lived  a  family 
of  husband,  wife  and  one  or  two  children.  I  cannot 
in  a  rapid  phrase  describe  the  condition  of  these 
rooms.  Only  the  crowded  detail  of  a  Hogarth  pic- 
ture could  convey  any  idea  of  their  confused  deso- 
lation. Tremendous  battles,  clearly,  had  been 
fought  to  make  them  comfortable,  but  the  result 
was  only  a  littered  battle-field,  an  Insane  discomfort, 
a  disorderly  rout  of  disorder.  Hardly  one  of  the 
common  conveniences  of  life  was  here.  Everything 
was  futile  counterfeit.  Every  drop  of  water  must 
be  carried  up  from  the  tap  over  the  sink  downstairs. 
Coal  is  bought  by  the  pound.  Table  utensils  must  be 
used  In  turn.  "After  you  with  the  spoon,  dad." 
"Lend  us  the  fork,  mother."  All  families  wash  at 
the  common  sink.  Between  the  bed  and  the  table  is 
perhaps  a  space  of  six  inches,  and  usually  one  of 
the  children  has  to  have  his  meals  on  the  bed. 

From  the  top  landing  of  a  bare,  eighteen-Inch 
staircase,  three  rooms  opened  from  a  space  of  about 
one  square  yard.  Crowding  this  space  was  a  wire 
cage,  in  which  were  two  sitting  hens.  In  one  room 
1  saw  a  sick  man,  reclining  half-naked  on  the  bed  and 


262  THE  LONDON  SPY 

making  dismal  noises.  In  another,  whose  opposite 
walls  I  could  touch  with  extended  arms,  the  hus- 
band, black  from  work,  was  bolting  his  mid-day  meal 
of  porridge  and  potatoes.  In  the  other,  three  chil- 
dren, home  from  school,  were  having  dinner — bread- 
and-margarinc  and  tea.  Their  young  heads  crowded 
over  the  tiny  table.  They  ate  against  time,  letting 
no  crumb  fall,  saying  no  word,  but  gazing  open-eyed 
at  the  stranger,  and  sometimes  missing  their  step 
with  the  slice  of  bread  and  grazing  their  hanging 
hair  with  It.  Each  room  hummed  with  flies,  and 
struck  hot  to  the  face.  It  being  Monday,  the  usual 
"poor"  smell  of  the  house,  which  Is  acute  and  tense, 
was  over-ridden  by  the  despondent  smell  of  wash- 
ing-day. 

That  house  was  the  worst  I  saw,  but  many  ran  it 
close;  and  I  was  amazed  that  the  tenants  could 
restrain  themselves  to  receive  me  with  no  more  than 
a  grumble. 

I  had  few  defaulters,  for  In  many  of  the  streets 
the  families  were  just  back  from  hopping.  'Opping 
ain't  what  It  useter  be,  as  any  one  will  tell  you,  but 
the  skilled  worker  can  still  make  a  good  thing  out  of 
It;  and  these  streets  were  flush.  It  is  only  a  side-line 
with  them;  a  sort  of  working-holiday.  The  staple 
Industry  Is  fish-curing,  which  Is  carried  on  In  the 
backyards  of  every  other  house. 

My  entry  Into  each  street  set  it  moving,  and  as  I 
knocked  at  the  first  door  other  women  came  hurry- 


IN  STREET  OF  BEAUTIFUL  CHILDREN   26^ 

ing  to  their  doors  with  their  greasy  books  and  their 
fishy  money  and  their  arms  covered  with  scales,  and 
stood  awaiting  me.  Most  of  the  doors  in  these 
streets  are  left  open,  and  through  them  you  step 
straight  into  the  front  parlour.  Where  there  are 
babies  the  doorways  are  wedged  with  a  protecting 
board,  about  two  feet  high,  and  over  the  top  of 
each  board  peers  master  baby.  This  is  a  common 
custom  of  poor  streets.  It  enables  baby  to  amuse 
himself  with  the  sight  of  the  street  and  to  take  the 
"fresh"  air,  while  mother  can  get  on  comfortably 
with  the  washing  or  the  fish-curing,  knowing  that 
he  cannot  adventure  into  the  perilous  gutter. 

At  every  door,  after  the  grumble,  I  had  a  few 
civil  words  from  father  or  mother. 

"I  think  you  ought  to  know  about  'er  at  number 
twenty.  I've  told  your  people  about  'er  before.  She 
ain't  respectable,  y'know.  Four  different  men  she' 
'ad  in  last  week.  Friends  of  'er  'usbands,  she  says. 
But  we  ain't  seen  no  'usband.  Married  at  the  bed- 
rail,  if  you  ask  me.  Not  that  I'm  one  to  make  mis- 
chief. Gawd  knows,  but  that  sorter  thing  makes  a 
street  so  low." 

Among  the  old  couples  there  were  no  defaulters  at 
all.  How  they  live  on  their  old-age  pensions,  and 
pay  fourteen  shillings  a  week,  even  with  the  help 
of  a  young-man-lodger,  I  cannot  guess.  It's  their 
secret,  and  somehow  they  do  it.  Their  homes,  being 
free  of  children,  w^ere  better  kept  than  the  others, 


264  THE  LONDON  SPY 

and  better  furnished — even  over-furnished — with 
the  slow  collections  of  years.  Spotlessly  clean  most 
of  them  were,  so  that  they  looked  like  a  freshly- 
bathed  youth  In  tramp's  rags;  clean  and  cosy,  if 
you  can  accept  the  thick  smell  that  must  go  with  cosi- 
ness In  these  parts.  (After  all,  what's  the  use  of 
opening  your  windows  when  your  stale  air  Is  only 
replaced  by  the  stinks  of  the  street?  Better  to  put 
up  with  the  close  food-and-bed  smell.)  Every  par- 
lour was  crowded  with  ornaments;  hundreds,  I 
would  say.  Mantelshelves  were  loaded  with  poor 
bric-a-brac.  Sideboards  were  cluttered  with  souve- 
nirs of  past  seaside  holidays.  Where  there  was  a 
piano,  that,  too,  was  loaded  with  faded  photographs. 
Every  wall  was  covered  with  pictures  of  some  sort, 
if  only  magazine  covers  or  pictures  cut  from  the 
illustrated  papers;  and  forlorn  relics  of  forgotten 
Christmases  filled  the  dim  cells  of  kitchens  with  dis- 
cordant rumours  of  revelry  and  frolic.  I  found 
something  at  once  saddening  and  stimulating  In 
these  doughty  efforts  at  beauty  and  embellishment; 
something  of  gallantry  and  gaiety;  something  fine 
and  resolute  that  Is  native  to  the  poor;  and,  cheer- 
less and  bothered  as  I  then  was,  I  finished  my  round 
with  easy  step.     My  spirit  was  renewed. 

And  when,  turning  from-  these  houses  of  the  old, 
and  their  struggle  for  grace,  I  came  suddenly  Into 
the  street  of  youth  and  bountiful  beauty,  all  my  de- 
pression vanished,  and  my  heart  leapt  up.    There  be- 


IN  STREET  OF  BEAUTIFUL  CHILDREN    265 

fore  me  stretched  the  Street  of  Beautiful  Children, 
and  at  sight  of  this  common  little  street  of  Stepney 
locked  inside  other  streets,  but  crowded  with  the 
most  beautiful  children  I  have  seen  In  any  part  of 
London,  I  forgot  my  troubles.  I  will  not  name  It, 
but  If  you  make  a  journey  through  Stepney  at  mid- 
day or  evening,  when  the  children  are  out  of  school, 
and  look  down  each  by-way  of  White  Horse  Lane, 
you  will  quickly  discover  The  Street  of  Beautiful 
Children.  You  will  not  find  there  the  radiant,  as- 
sertive beauty  of  the  well-fed,  well-clothed  children 
of  Mayfair  and  Kensington,  but  rather  a  pathetic, 
wistful,  evocative  beauty — deep-set  and  wholly  un- 
conscious of  Itself.  Fastidious  people  might  stand  a 
little  aloof  from  this  beauty,  denying  It  because  of 
the  dirt  and  street  assoilment  that  so  often  overlies 
It.  But  it  is  there — a  loveliness  that  shines  under  the 
dirt  like  a  Toledo  blade  under  its  rust,  and.  In  Its 
gross  setting,  touches  the  heart  with  melancholy. 

This  beauty  is  not  bred  and  nurtured  In  the  home. 
Almost  every  hour  of  the  children's  lives,  except 
those  spent  in  school  and  bed,  is  spent  In  the  dun 
streets.  They  take  their  breakfast  to  the  streets, 
and  their  teas;  and  those  for  whom  mother  has  not 
been  able  to  contrive  a  "sit-down"  mid-day  meal, 
take  their  dinners  there. 

It  is  an  unlovely  street,  of  blunt  outlines,  as  straight 

and  bare  as  a  sword.     The  road  Is  asphalt,  and  the 

Jjouses  are  brick  cubes,  without  garnish  or  decorative 


266  THE  LONDON  SPY 

detail.  Its  colour  is  that  of  French  mustard.  Its 
very  respectability  increases  its  misery.  It  is  not 
even  broken  by  raggedness,  by  torn  curtains  or  bat- 
tered roofs,  or  the  last  despairing  flourishes  of 
decay.  At  early  morning  or  late  night  it  is  as 
bald  and  blank  as  a  corridor  in  a  military  bar- 
racks. 

But  at  the  mid-hour  of  the  day  and  at  evening, 
the  children  make  it  a  true  Hans  Andersen  street,  a 
street  of  frolic  movement  and  effervescent  gesture. 
In  no  other  street  in  London  will  you  find  such  a 
wealth  of  young  physical  joy.  Out  of  the  wretched 
doors  leaps  urgent  beauty.  From  upper  windows 
wonderful  heads  smile  down  upon  you,  and — if  your 
appearance  is  peculiar  from  the  local  type — these 
heads  cry  shrill  and  petulant  remarks.  Dark-haired, 
pale  little  girls,  of  the  rich,  sad  pallor  that  belongs  to 
the  East,  stand  at  doorways  and  look  and  look  into 
nothing;  exquisite  statuettes  of  ebony  and  alabaster. 
Bare-legged  and  bare-footed  girls  dart  across  the 
street,  the  random  breeze  taking  their  frocks,  the 
thin  sunlight  flashing  into  profile  their  sharp  outlines. 
Thick-curled  little  boys  squabble  and  struggle  under 
the  low  parlour  windows,  crying  to  mother  for  news 
of  dinner.  The  narrow  roadway  twinkles  with  legs 
and  flashes  with  the  bright  hair  and  coloured  and 
discoloured  frocks  of  little  girls  running  mid-day 
"arrants"  for  mother.  The  forgotten  game  of 
diabolo  is  still  popular  here,  and  its  urgent  attitudes 


IN  STREET  OF  BEAUTIFUL  CHILDREN   267 

gladden  the  street  with  swift  figures  in  the  felicit- 
ous poise  between  movement  and  rest. 

Such  an  accumulation  of  beauty  at  once  delights 
and  saddens.  But  for  their  voices  and  manners  you 
would  say  they  were  dream-children;  and  any  child- 
less person,  looking  down  this  street  would,  I  think, 
wish  to  seize  one  of  these  fragments  of  childhood 
and  adopt  it,  and  soften  the  voices  and  manners  into 
harmony  with  the  faces.  For  it  is  pitiful  to  think 
that  time  and  toil,  stress  and  hunger,  soon  will  steal 
their  beauty  from  them,  and  that  the  glory  and 
loveliness  will  pass  away. 

One  would  like  to  hold  it  for  ever,  to  cherish  this 
young  grace  and  preserve  it  from  the  brute  contacts 
of  its  alleys.  One  would  like  to  take  each  child 
from  that  street,  and  from  the  weary  way  into  which 
it  will  lead  them  when  they  are  older;  but  that  would 
be  wrong  unless  you  took  the  parents  too.  For 
what  would  mother  do  if  Lucy  or  Johnny  were  taken 
from  her?  The  Street  of  Beautiful  Children  is  also 
a  street  of  happy  people;  children  and  parents  de- 
lighting in  each  other;  the  parents  struggling  for  the 
best  that  circumstances  afford  for  their  darlings,  and 
the  children  glad  of  what  they  get.  It  is  the  en- 
vironment that  should  be  altered.  It  is  the  cramped 
spaces  of  the  home  that  so  quickly  kill  all  beauty 
of  heart  and  face.  In  such  surroundings  the  struggle 
to  preserve  the  decencies  is  hopeless;  and  soon  vital- 
ity is  lowered  and  self-respect  corroded,  and  beauty 


268  THE  LONDON  SPY 

fades.  That  Is  why  I  want  to  take  the  children  away 
— not  from  their  families,  to  which  they  are  orna- 
ment and  delight;  not  even  from  Stepney;  but  from 
the  wretched  rabbit-hutches  of  Stepney.  And  those 
children  in  whose  homes  the  best  Is  not  made  of 
things,  who  have  careless  mothers  and  dispirited 
fathers,  or  wicked  and  cruel,  those  I  would  like  to 
carry  away  to  a  home  where  their  hearts  should 
know  the  little  precious  things  that  help  hearts  to 
grow  In  beauty.  Not  into  a  "Home" — oh,  mocking 
word ! — and  Its  cold  squalors  and  brutallsing  sys- 
tem, but  Into  an  ordinary  happy  household.  God 
forbid  that  I  should  be  a  party  to  sending  any  child 
from  the  light-limbed  freedom  of  this  street,  which 
to  their  rich  minds  Is  a  wonderland,  Into  the  hygienic 
horrors  of  a  Home.  I  know  too  much  about  them. 
Falling  a  true  home,  they  are  better  where  they  are. 

The  daily  pageant  of  the  city  streets  Is  hourly 
broken  by  many  an  ugly  incident,  flashes  of  distress, 
and  shocks  to  civic  pride;  but  the  very  ugliest  spec- 
tacle of  the  pageant  Is  one  that  evokes  remarks.  If 
any,  of  complacent  approval;  I  mean  a  procession 
of  children  from  a  Home  or  Charity  School.  At  the 
first  sight  of  the  little  regiment,  and  the  first  sound 
of  the  tramping  feet,  the  faces  of  the  onlookers 
smirk  benignly.  The  poor  orphans !  What  a  touch- 
ing sight!  What  a  splendid  thing  these  Homes  are 
for  the  children! 


IN  STREET  OF  BEAUTIFUL  CHILDREN    269 

And  yet.  .  .  ,  Childhood  Implies  freshness,  starry- 
lustre,  and  blithe  movement — all  the  little  gracious 
flakes  of  another  life  which  soon  are  shed  by  the 
world's  increasing  contact.  The  street  of  beautiful 
ragged  children  has  its  share  of  these  things,  and 
the  urchins  move  with  the  wild  grace  of  the  young 
colt.  The  well-nurtured  and  carefully-tended  child 
of  Kensington  Gardens  has  them,  too,  in  less  ample 
degree.  But  these  other  unfortunates — what  the 
public  can  perceive  In  their  situation  to  "touch"  or 
gratify,  I  do  not  know.  They  are  a  procession  of 
cowed  captives.  Their  movements  are  heavy;  of 
delight  they  know  little,  and  their  early  freshness 
is  already  tarnished.  They  are  socially  branded; 
the  Charity  Children.  They  are  so  many  parading 
grotesques,  advertising  the  altruism  of  their  protec- 
tors. Study  their  faces,  and  you  will  see  that,  al- 
though chubby,  they  are  blank  and  witless.  The 
eyes  are  clear,  but  without  zest;  the  lips  unused  to 
laughter.  The  features  are  heavy  with  thick 
food  and  enforced  hebetude.  They  march  like  pris- 
oners, and  you  may  see  that  they  look  upon  the 
people  and  the  other  children  In  the  streets  with  be- 
wilderment, as  creatures  from  another  world,  which 
they  are;  and  they  would,  like  long-term  prisoners, 
be  disconcerted  if  suddenly  released  into  that  large, 
bright,  moving  world  of  freedom  and  independence. 
They  know  nothing  of  it,  and,  if  unguided,  they 
move  with  faces  like  baffled  sheep. 


270  THE  LONDON  SPY 

"As  cold  as  charity"  is  a  common  figure  of  speech 
among  the  poor,  who  are  best  qualified  to  employ  it; 
and  very  apt  it  is. 

Pity  the  children  of  the  poor! 

Not  for  the  hardships  of  the  situation  into  which 
they  were  born,  but  for  their  sufferings  at  the  hands 
of  the  philanthropist,  who  rescues  them  from  the 
roaming  plain  of  poverty,  and  carries  them  into  bar- 
racks.    I   have   had   bitter   familiarity   with    these 
Homes  for  Orphans,  contumeliously  named  Ragged 
Schools,  Waifs  and  Strays,  Industrial  Schools,  Pau- 
per Schools,  Working  Schools,  etc.,   and  I  do  not 
suffer  any  glow  of  complacence  when  I  see  children 
dragged  from  The  Street  of  Beautiful  Children  and 
carried  into  them.     I  know  the  exacerbation  of  dis- 
tress which  they  will  suffer  from  their  hideous  garb 
and  rule-of-thumb  routine,   and  their  futile   agony 
against  the  callous  machinery  of  philanthropy  which 
will  blindly  bruise  them;  and  I  write  again  as  a  child 
from  personal  memories.    I  know  that  these  Homes 
mean  to  children  what  the  immediate  prospect  of 
prison  means  to  the  normal  respectable  man.    At  first 
the  child  is  horrified  and  cannot  make  himself  be- 
lieve that  these  gaunt  people  can  mean  to  hold  him 
within  their  grip  for  a  term  of  years  which  is  eter- 
nity to  him.     He  Is  stunned,  then  hotly  rebellious. 
But  quickly  he  is  given  "special  attentions,"  and  soon 
he  is  without  capacity  for  anger,  incapable  of  inde- 
pendent thought,  submissive;  too  apathetic  even  to 


IN  STREET  OF  BEAUTIFUL  CHILDREN   271 

think  of  running  away  from  his  captors.  He  be- 
comes a  part  of  the  Home — a  mere  organism.  For 
these  places  are  not  without  means  of  coercing  the 
recalcitrant. 

Look  upon  the  beautiful  free  faces  and  dense 
tresses  of  the  children  of  this  Stepney  Street  and 
then  look  at  the  cold-dumpHng  faces  of  Charity 
children,  shorn  and  shaved  and  ludicrous.  They 
are  not  children — they  are  little  old  men  and  women, 
goblins  of  the  underworld.  The  children  of  the 
poor  are,  I  suppose,  fair  game  for  any  experimenting 
philanthropist.  Systems  have  to  be  tried  somewhere, 
and  it  is  better  to  try  them  upon  those  who  have  no 
influential  parents  or  friends  to  raise  misleading  out- 
cries in  the  press.  So  long  as  the  public  sees  official 
statistics  and  the  spectacle  of  physically  healthy 
and  well-clothed  children,  it  is  comfortably  sure  that 
Good  Work  is  being  done;  and  it  goes  home  to 
dinner,  without  enquiring  further. 

It  does  not  know — or  care — that  most  of  these 
Homes  are  a  hundred  years  behind  the  age.  They 
are  conducted  still  on  the  principles  of  nineteenth 
century  charity.  The  children  are  well-fed,  and 
tended  (no  doubt  of  that)  for  they  are  being  trained 
for  Work,  as  useful  citizens;  they  are  as  valuable 
as  horses.  But  their  bodies  are  clothed  in  the  clothes 
of  contumely,  their  souls  are  starved,  and  their  minds 
are  fed  with  false  doctrines  of  conduct,  and  bent 
and  twisted  to  the  System's  will.    Their  proprietors 


272  THE  LONDON  SPY 

(I  think  the  term  is  justified)  claim  that  they  have 
snatched  them  from  evil  surroundings  and  conditions 
of  neglect  and  ill-treatment,  and  have  given  them  a 
Good  Home,  where  comfort  and  sound  training  are 
lavished  upon  them  in  good  measure.  The  term 
should  be  "Good  Stabling,"  for  all  that  the  children 
get  are  what  the  sensible  farmer  gives  his  cattle 
— shelter,  food,  exercise,  and  hygiene.  Only  the 
farmer  is  honest  about  It.  He  does  not  mis-call  it 
Charity,  Philanthropy,  or  Kindness  to  the  Weak; 
he  gives  it  its  true  name,  Good  Business. 

You  have  only  to  look  at  the  children  to  see  that 
they  are  utterly  uncared-for,  in  the  true  sense.  You 
can  see  that  they  never  know  caresses,  or  sweet 
foolish  words,  or  the  hearty  cuff  and  personal  ad- 
monishment of  a  parent.  In  the  Homes  they  are 
a  Herd,  and  the  treatment  is  impersonal.  They 
are  what  the  directors  brazenly  call  them — "assets" 
of  the  nation,  "material"  for  the  services.  But,  if 
I  know  children,  they  would  much  rather  suffer  the 
rough  treatment  of  an  alcoholic  father  or  a  neglect- 
ful mother  than  the  cold,  studied  "care"  and  cold, 
ceremonial  punishments,  of  the  Home.  Personal 
Injustice  Is  more  easily  endured  than  impersonal 
justice.  The  most  dishevelled  hovel,  the  most  care- 
less and  kickful  parents,  are  points  of  personal  con- 
tact, of  intimacy.  They  carry  a  rough,  rude  cheer; 
and  even  If  life  in  the  hovel  Is  explosive  and  inde- 
cent the  child  develops  himself  more  rightly  there 


IN  STREET  OF  BEAUTIFUL  CHILDREN    273 

than  among  the  cold  walls  and  hard  floors  and  rigid 
rules  of  Charity.  He  learns  independence.  He  leads 
a  life  of  stimulating  hazard  and  adventure,  ever  alert 
for  the  moment's  occasions  and  the  rich  turns  of  the 
new  day,  and  delighting  in  it.  For  the  poor,  in  all 
their  rude  aspects,  are  picturesque  and  personal, 
while  the  rich  are  never  picturesque;  only  rich.  I 
wonder,  does  the  reason  for  the  savage  suppression 
of  the  colour  and  movement  of  the  poor  lie  there? 
Is  this  why  the  rich,  unable  themselv^es  to  achieve 
colour,  are  so  rigorous  in  "putting  it  down,"  in  seiz- 
ing the  young  poor  and  re-forming  them  to  a  pat- 
tern, dull  and  flat,  like  themselves? 

Whatever  the  reason,  that  is  what  they  do.  When 
the  Charity,  supported  by  the  rich,  gets  the  street- 
child,  its  first  action  is  to  dope  him  to  insensibility 
by  drill.  Then  it  holds  him  fenced  from  life,  and 
sucks  him  dry  of  spirit  and  wits  and  enterprise.  Ini- 
tiative is  taken  from  him,  and  so  long  as  he  is  "good" 
(that  is,  dull  and  automatic)  his  three  fat  meals 
a  day  will  be  laid  for  him.  The  Home,  while  giving 
him  food,  clothing,  education,  organised  games, 
moral  training  and  a  sort  of  aloof  kindness — every- 
thing to  fit  him  effectually  for  service — robs  him 
of  his  most  precious  possession — individual  charac- 
ter. It  claims  to  "mould"  his  character,  and  the 
word  is  apt.  He  is  "moulded" — to  something  very 
mean  and  low.  He  is  forced  to  move  with  the  herd, 
and,  if  to  think  at  all,  to  think  only  with  the  herd. 


274.  THE  LONDON  SPY 

He  is  trained  not  to  develop  himself  to  his  highest 
pitch  for  the  betterment  of  the  world  and  the  enjoy- 
ment of  its  pleasant  things;  not  to  let  his  faculties 
and  fancies  find  themselves,  but  to  get  into  harness 
and  become  an  asset  of  the  nation;  to  serve,  not  to 
participate. 

The  spirit  of  the  herd — they  call  it  teamwork — 
is  a  vicious  spirit.  You  find  it  in  charity  schools  and 
in  Armies,  and  you  find  it  directing  those  deadening 
organisations.  Boy  Scouts  and  Girl  Guides.  The 
spirit  of  these  organisations  is  a  negation  of  the 
soul.  It  calls  for  the  most  vile  and  debasing  of  sur- 
renders— not  material  surrender  to  an  invincible 
enemy,  but  moral  surrender  to  weak  friends;  sur- 
render of  character  to  the  team.  Less  base  is  the 
woman  who  surrenders  her  virtue  than  the  youth 
or  man  who  yields  or  lowers  his  character  and 
abilities  to  the  mean  of  his  fellows.  And  Boy  Scouts 
and  Girl  Guides  are  trained  for  that  very  end — to 
give  up  all  the  beauty,  character,  power  and  unique 
quality  that  is  their  dower  for  the  benefit  of  the 
fools,  that  they  may  not  o'er-top  their  directors. 
Never  yet  did  a  great  man  make  one  of  a  team. 
He  may  have  led  a  team,  but  always  he  was  him- 
self, moving  along  his  own  lines,  never  sinking  him- 
self to  the  level  of  the  laggards;  and  if  the  crowd 
called  him  to  order  they  called  In  vain.  No  charac- 
ter of  worth  can  ever  efface  itself,  or  if  It  does,  it 
commits   the  unspeakable   sin.      That  sin,   soldiers, 


IN  STREET  OF  BEAUTIFUL  CHILDREN   275 

Boy  Scouts  and  Girl  Guides  are  trained  daily  to 
commit — to  deny  their  own  souls  for  the  sake  of  the 
crowd.  You  see  it  in  Parliament,  in  the  Army,  in 
Trades  Unions,  in  the  athletic  field,  in  the  public 
school,  and  specially  in  the  Charity  Refuge.  There 
is  one  great  law  in  this  country  well  supported  by 
the  established  caste:  you  must  not  be  distinguished. 
It  was  made  by  and  for  the  dull  majority  to  keep 
the  brighter  minds — the  men  who  knoiv — down  to 
their  own  low  level;  but  happily,  as  you  know,  it 
seldom  succeeds.  Pegasus  can  never  be  harnessed 
effectively  to  the  plough.  But  in  the  Home  all  the 
most  modern  machinery  is  employed  to  break  the 
brilliant  down  to  the  team. 

When  you  have  seen  the  Homes,  you  can  almost 
visualise  the  business  men  and  cold  women  who  di- 
rect them.  You  will  note  about  them  a  certain 
greasy  complacence — the  mark  of  those  who  are 
Doing  Good;  defending  the  children  of  the  poor. 
From  what  it  is  that  they  are  defending  them,  I  do 
not  know,  unless  it  is  from  all  beauty,  interest,  joy, 
and  self-expression.  These  things,  I  am  sure,  they 
would  never  consider  as  the  birthright  of  the  chil- 
dren of  the  poor,  and  would  be  surprised  and  amused 
if  you  asked  them  why  they  could  not  conduct  their 
schools  on  a  curriculum  similar  to  that  enjoyed  by 
their  own  sons  and  daughters.  They  are  self-as- 
sured that  they  are  doing  the  Best  for  the  Children. 
The  children  could  present  them  with   a   different 


276  THE  LONDON  SPY 

view,  but  they  never  talk  to  the  children  on  the  level, 
as  man  to  man.  Your  philanthropist  does  not  see 
the  children  of  the  poor  as  God  sees  them,  but  as 
objects  for  his  own  loving-kindness,  to  be  patted 
on  the  head  like  good  dogs.  He  carries  into  detailed 
practice  the  harsh  precepts  of  the  Church  Catechism, 
that  monument  of  class-distinction,  which  might 
have  been  made  by  a  twelfth-century  lord  for  his 
serfs.  He  extinguishes  all  the  high  lights  of  char- 
acter. He  strips  them  of  their  self-respect  and  hides 
their  incipient  grace  under  clothes  as  brutalising  and 
degrading  as  convict  garb;  and  shows  them  off,  at 
feeding-times,  to  charitable  sight-seers,  as  a  well- 
trained  troupe. 

I  am  not  suggesting  that  there  is  any  deliberate 
unkindness  in  his  method;  but  there  is  a  frugality 
of  kindness  that  is  perhaps  worse.  He  does  not, 
or  will  not  understand  that  the  children  of  the  poor 
are  creatures  of  light  and  ardour,  as  well  as  bodily 
appetite.  He  confines  the  beautiful  fluidity  of  child- 
life  within  his  own  rigid  lines,  and  distorts  It  to  his 
own  ends.  The  little  feet  that  should  have  wings 
are  bound  down  by  big  boots,  and  the  flying  limbs 
are  curbed.  His  system  Is  a  degradation  of  child- 
hood, a  denial  of  beauty,  a  mean  patronage  of  the 
helpless.  He  even  permits  doctors  to  make  experi- 
ments upon  the  children's  bodies.  This  I  know:  but 
I  have  never  heard  even  a  rumour  that  Eton  boys 
are    subject    to    inoculation    experiments.     To    all 


IN  STREET  OF  BEAUTIFUL  CHILDREN    277 

critics  he  replies,  in  the  large  manner,  "Pooh,  Senti- 
mental nonsense !"  I  am  no  sentimentalist,  and 
would  rather  see  the  children  left  to  fight  and  frolic 
and  go  hungry  in  the  Street  of  Beautiful  Children 
than  see  them  broken-in  like  horses  in  hygienic 
Homes.  The  rags  of  the  street-boy  are  clothes,  and 
they  dress  him  fitly,  and  belong  to  him.  They  are 
often  his  own  creation,  and  he  is  happy  in  them,  and 
his  movements  are  free  and  full,  as  they  should  be. 
The  uniform  of  the  charity  child  is  not  dress,  but 
harness;  they  are  animals,  patient  under  the  yoke. 
In  these  places  they  are  cut  off  from  the  world 
and  from  all  appeal,  and  in  many  Homes  the  chil- 
dren are  not  let  out  until  they  have  completed  their 
training,  which  means  that  they  live  for  eight  or  nine 
years,  under  a  system  formulated  and  calculated  to 
nip  and  kill  any  shoot  of  original  feeling,  to  thwart 
any  groping  for  self-expression;  and  departures 
from  the  strait-waistcoat  rule  are  punished  with  gross 
and  obscene  punishments.  They  rise  at  a  bell,  march 
to  dining-hall  to  a  bell,  sing  grace  to  a  bell,  sit  to  a 
bell,  begin  eating  or  stop  eating  to  a  bell,  march  Into 
class,  into  chapel,  to  a  bell,  form  up  for  drill  to  a 
bell,  play  on  the  signal  of  a  bell,  and  go  to  bed  to  a 
bell.  Every  moment  of  their  daily  life  is  planned. 
Leisure  is  forbidden.  If  they  are  not  working,  they 
must  play  organised  games,  and  play  hard;  and  if 
the  directors  could  control  the  soul's  wanderings 
during  sleep,  they  would  do  so. 


278  THE  LONDON  SPY 

If  these  Institutions  are  really  the  Good  Homes 
they  claim  to  be,  why  are  so  many  desperate  attempts 
made  by  the  older  boys  at  escape?  I  never  knew 
any  child  in  a  charity  school  who  had  not,  day  and 
night,  a  deep-set  longing  to  get  away  from  it.  In- 
deed, I  have  known  boys  who  nightly,  with  simple 
faith,  prayed  to  God  that  the  school  should  be  burnt 
down.  And  I  always  rejoice  when  I  hear  of  escapes 
from  Homes  and  Reformatories. 

There  is  a  boy  who  remembers  too  clearly  those 
monstrous  moments  when  he  first  witnessed  an  or- 
phanage flogging.  He  will  always  remember  them. 
Two  boys  had  attempted  to  run  away.  Miserably 
for  them,  they  failed,  and  were  caught  after  one 
day  out  and  dragged  back.  For  a  week  they  were 
kept  isolated.  Then,  one  chill  morning  at  eight 
o'clock,  an  order  came  for  the  whole  school  to 
form  up  in  the  big  schoolroom.  They  were  marched 
In  and  kept  at  "attention"  for  some  minutes.  Then, 
on  the  dais,  appeared  a  director  of  the  school,  the 
head-master,  the  bailiff,  carrying  a  frightful  thing 
under  his  arm,  and  the  two  culprits,  their  faces 
grey.  The  head-master  spoke:  rehearsed  the  facts 
of  their  crime,  and  announced  their  punishment — six 
strokes  of  the  birch.  A  ripple  ran  through  the  as- 
sembled school — a  shock. 

"Silence !"  The  boy  who  was  witnessing  this 
horror  for  the  first  time  felt  sick.  He  could  not 
believe  that  these  men  were  going  to  do  this  thing 


IN  STREET  OF  BEAUTIFUL  CHILDREN   279 

to  these  children.  The  men  on  the  platform  held 
themselves  casually.  The  thick-lipped  City  stock- 
broker, who  subscribed  his  £500  each  year  towards 
the  Good  Work,  which  entitled  him  to  be  present 
on  these  occasions,  had  his  hand  in  his  pocket.  The 
bailiff  wasn't  interested;  he  stood  twiddling  the  in- 
strument which  he  carried. 

It  was  a  dim,  curdled  morning  of  January,  and 
over  that  bleak  hall  hovered  something  dark  and 
gloating.  An  order  was  given.  The  sick  boys,  with 
the  rigid  movement  of  sleep-walkers,  obeyed,  and 
stood  before  their  comrades  in  abasement.  One 
was  called  forward.  He  shuffled  to  the  spot  indi- 
cated. The  thick  lips  dropped  another  order.  .  .  . 
The  boy  crouched  in  a  posture  that  annihilated  all 
decency,  honour,  and  boyhood.  The  headmaster 
took  the  thing  from  the  bailiff,  posed  himself,  lifted 
his  arm.   .   .   . 

The  school  shuddered  and  gasped  with  the  hiss  of 
the  instrument  and  the  scream  of  the  victim.  He 
writhed  round  the  platform,  and  his  screams  cut  the 
thick  morning  air,  and  cut  and  shamed  the  other 
boys.  The  new  boy  was  class-mates  with  this  lad, 
and  knew  him  as  a  bright,  eager  boy,  merry,  clean- 
minded,  serious,  and  proud.  And  here  he  was, 
twisted  by  his  masters  into  obscene  and  ludicrous 
shapes.  The  boys  hung  their  heads  and  wouldn't 
look.  An  order  was  barked — "Heads  up !"  Then 
to  the  boys:  "Over  again!" 


280  THE  LOXDOX  SPY 

The  second  stroke  fell.  The  boy  staggered  be- 
fore he  screamed;  then  screamed  in  long  wails. 
"Down  you  go !"  A  boy  In  the  crowd  fainted,  and 
was  carried  out.  From  behind  him  the  new  boy 
heard  a  snigger.  He  turned,  and  found  that  It 
came  from  a  group  of  teachers.  .  .  .  The  hall  grew 
dim,  a  little  circle  of  waving  Instrument  and  a  leap- 
ing figure,  shot  through  with  screams;  and,  at  the 
back  of  the  platform,  the  second  culprit,  awaiting  his 
torture  with  the  eyes  of  a  dead  fish  and  a  paper 
face.  ...  At  the  fourth  stroke  the  boy,  screaming 
for  mere}',  turned  from  one  to  the  other  on  the  plat- 
form— a  mass  of  disordered  clothes.  He  tried  to 
run,  but  his  trousers  at  his  feet  were  effectual  man- 
acles. He  achieved  only  a  grotesque  shamble,  be- 
fore the  bailiff  seized  him.  This  time  he  was  held 
over  by  the  bailiff.  Dazed  with  pain,  he  called  upon 
his  mother.  He  shouted  upon  God.  He  began 
to  babble,  "Our  Father  which  art  In  heaven.  .  .  ." 
But  there  was  no  answer.   ... 

Bad  as  the  ordinary  orphanage  or  charity  school 
Is,  from  the  child's  point  of  view,  the  reformatories 
are  a  thousand  times  worse,  being  appointed  with 
torments  specially  devised  to  shock  the  young  delin- 
quent Into  virtue.  They  exist  for  the  purpose  of  re- 
claiming "bad"  children  and  restoring  to  them  their 
self-respect.  Actually,  they  are  factories  for  the  pro- 
duction of  determined   criminals,   shorn    of    every 


IN  STREET  OF  BEAUTIFUL  CHILDREN    281 

shred  of  self-love  or  self-respect.  They  are  run 
on  methods  of  malevolence;  they  manufacture  hate. 
Let  a  boy  be  sent  to  one  of  these  places,  for  of- 
fences which,  in  a  student  or  undergraduate,  are 
expiated  by  apologies  and  money-payments,  and  he 
Is  a  skulking  criminal  for  life.  He  Is  corrupted  by 
his  fellows  and  maltreated  in  the  name  of  the  State; 
tortured  by  Rules  and  Regulations  and  Drills,  as 
the  Inquisition  tortured  in  the  name  of  the  True 
Faith.  Glimpses  of  life  In  these  places  have  lately 
been  vouchsafed  to  the  public  through  coroners'  In- 
quests; but  what  drawn-out  agony  It  Is  that  can  drive 
a  high-spirited  youth  of  seventeen  to  murder  or  sul' 
cide  God  and  the  officials  only  know;  for  they  are 
caged,  these  children,  without  communication  with 
the  world.  Visiting  justices?  Travelling  inspec- 
tors? Yes,  but  are  they  wholly  disinterested?  And 
do  they  bring  to  the  boys  the  sympathy  they  give 
to  their  own  class? 

And  the  girls'  reformatories.  If  not  so  harsh  in 
degree,  are  equally  harsh  In  practice.  The  system 
Is  the  same.  The  breaking  In  and  bruising  are  the 
same.  The  forms  of  punishment  are  equally  ob- 
scene, and  they  degrade  young  girls  in  soul  and  self- 
respeet  as  quickly  as — though  In  a  different  way — 
the  system  of  the  brothel.  The  only  difference  Is 
that  the  reformatory  permits — and  compels — them 
to  keep  their  physical  chastity.  For  the  rest,  these 
Houses  of  Correction  break  them  on  the  wheel  of 


282  THE  LONDON  SPY 

obedience  as  effectually  as  the  house  of  ill-fame;  and 
after  a  few  years  of  their  oppression,  no  girl  leaves 
their  gates  but  as  an  enemy  of  society. 

You  are  not  supposed  to  hear  the  secrets  of  these 
places — the  long-drawn  misery,  the  heart-ache,  and 
the  self-mutilations  arising  from  the  misery.  You 
are  told  only  just  as  much  as  is  good  for  you;  for, 
if  the  truth  were  made  plain,  you  might  be  moved  to 
interfere  and  stop  the  necessary  and  blessed  work 
of  reformation.  Much  dirty  work  has  to  be  done 
in  the  public  interest,  and  no  doubt  it  is  a  wise  rul- 
ing that  withholds  the  disturbing  details.  When 
Charles  Reade,  in  some  of  his  novels,  described  the 
procedure  of  prison-life  and  lunatic  asylums,  people 
said,  a  little  uncomfortably,  "Overdrawn!  Exagger- 
ated! Such  things  don't  happen  in  this  England  of 
ours !"  And  they  would  say  the  same  if  they  were 
permitted  to  know^  the  blasting  details  of  reforma- 
tory procedure.  One  hates  to  shake  self-compla- 
cence; it  is  so  amiable  a  vice;  but  those  who  are  so 
satisfied  with  this  England  of  ours  would  do  well  to 
make  some  investigation  into  the  methods  of  author- 
ity towards  the  helpless,  and  learn  "how  men  their 
brothers  maim"  and  how  women  torture  their  young 
sisters. 

Charles  Reade  is  read  to-day  only  for  his  "story" 
and  "De  Profundis"  as  a  piece  of  literature.  Few 
people  are  concerned  to  know  whether  conditions  are 
so  very  much  improved.     In  any  case,  it  would  be 


IN  STREET  OF  BEAUTIFUL  CHILDREN   283 

made  tremendously  difficult  for  any  private  person, 
however  his  conscience  troubled  him,  to  discover  the 
truth.  He  might  procure  admission  to  a  school,  but 
he  would  see  it  working  only  as  engines  work  when 
the  engineer  starts  them  up  for  the  amusement  of  the 
curious.  Only  the  children  could  tell  him  the  truth, 
but  he  would  be  permitted  to  speak  only  to  chosen 
children,  and  not  then  alone;  and  even  if  he  reached 
the  others,  they  would  be  fearful  of  telling  him 
much  of  their  hearts'  misery,  since  they  are  always, 
as  a  result  of  the  system,  bewildered  by  questions 
and  suspicious  of  the  kindly  stranger,  when  not  in- 
articulate. Many,  too,  are  so  blunted  that  they  have 
come  to  regard  the  system  as  no  more  demeaning 
to  themselves  than  a  police-court  fine  to  an  adult. 
You  may  study  the  Reports  of  these  places — reports 
as  cold  and  impersonal  as  the  walls  of  the  institu- 
tions— ^but  what  do  these  Reports  convey?  "During 
the  month  of  March  two  girls  attempted  escape. 
Both  were  recaptured  and  suitably  punished."  Just 
that.  "Punished."  One  reads  the  word,  and  passes 
on,  conceiving  no  picture  of  the  child,  half-paralysed 
with  terror,  being  dragged  back  to  the  Home;  no 
picture  of  the  defilement  of  body  and  soul;  the 
screams  of  torment,  the  foul  face  of  the  flogger.  It 
Is  not  intended  that  you  should  see  these  things. 
Charity  loves  not  the  candid  light  of  the  sun.  Char- 
ity and  rescue  move  mysteriously,  with  the  padded 
feet  of  midnight  murder. 


284  THE  LONDON  SPY 

If  the  publisher  and  the  police  and  the  National 
Vigilance  Society  would  permit  me,  I  would  give 
you  the  true  full  horror  of  the  business  of  punish- 
ment, which  I  have  merely  sketched,  and  I  think  you 
might  then  feel  that  the  treatment  of  the  delinquent 
has  not  advanced  far  beyond  the  seventeenth  cen- 
tury, and  that  these  Homes  are  not  entirely  the  pleas- 
ant sanatoria  that  the  eye-winking  inspectors  find 
them.  But  just  conceive  the  spectacle  of  a  half- 
clothed  girl  of  seventeen  firmly  held  down  by  a 
brawny  attendant,  while  another  coldly  tortures  her 
under  the  watchful  eye  of  the  doctor,  and  the  room 
rings  with  vain  cries  on  God  and  man  for  mercy. 
What  is  the  offence  that  merits  this  torture?  Mur- 
der, tyranny,  secret  poisoning,  swindling  the  public, 
high  treason,  cruelty  to  children,  fraudulent  com- 
pany promoting,  sending  rotten  ships  to  sea?  No. 
Running  away  from  a  Good  Home.  And  for  this 
work  of  reclamation,  you  pay. 

Only  those,  as  I  have  said,  who  have  been  inmates 
of  these  places, — and  who  are  left  with  the  power 
to  remember — can  tell  anything;  and  few  of  them 
are  willing  to  do  so.  I  have  met  many  ex-reforma- 
tory boys  and  girls,  and  all  of  them  have  in  their 
faces,  in  the  depths  of  their  eyes,  that  something  that 
time  can  never  cure,  that  they  can  never  live  down 
and  never  avenge.  The  world  has  done  something 
to  them  which  lives  with  them  and  repeats  itself 
in  dreams  and  sub-conscious  memory.     They  have 


IN  STREET  OF  BEAUTIFUL  CHILDREN   285 

seen  something  of  horror.  They  know  too  much  and 
too  early  of  shame  and  despair.  The  child's  individ- 
uality is  a  precious  possession,  and  the  indignities 
and  obscenities  which  are  heaped  upon  them  in  these 
places  in  the  name  of  Rescue  and  Reformation  are 
things  which  they  can  never  forgive. 

The  girls  have  told  me  of  the  long  sobbing  nights 
(sobbing  is  an  offence),  the  aching  hearts,  the  bit- 
ing of  the  lips  under  the  solitary  punishment,  when, 
like  maniacs,  they  were  handcuffed  and  bound  with- 
in a  body-belt;  and  such  things,  coming  in  the  most 
delicate  and  gracious  years  of  child-life,  leave  an 
enduring  impression  of  horror  and  disgust  which 
colours  every  new  experience  of  life.  But  with  most 
of  them  the  memories  are  so  searing  and  brutalising 
that  they  cannot  and  will  not  talk  of  them,  even  to 
intimate  friends.  That  is  where  authority  has  the 
pull;  it  not  only  torments,  but  silences  the  evi- 
dence. 

Here  you  may  say:  "Yes,  this  is  all  very  well, 
but  what  about  it?  Crime  must  be  punished,  or 
none  of  us  v/ould  be  safe."  I  don't  care  what  you 
say — no  offence  against  Society  merits  this  torture. 
And  nine-tenths  of  these  children  are  not  criminals. 
Reformatories  are  for  poor  children  only;  no  under- 
graduate or  rich  man's  son  or  daughter  is  to  be  found 
there.  The  undergraduate  may  destroy  college 
gates,  and  knock  old  men's  eyes  out,  and  break  shop 
windows,  and  hold  up  traffic,  and  assault  policemen. 


286  THE  LONDON  SPY 

but  his  offences  are  "rags,"  outbursts  of  "high-spir- 
ited youth."  The  children  who  are  in  our  reform- 
atories are  "in"  for  much  milder  offences  than 
these.  The  working-boy  in  Shoreditch,  at  a  loose 
end  on  Sunday,  a  day  which  makes  no  provision  for 
"high-spirited  youth,"  kicks  a  football  about  the 
streets,  and  is  Immediately  taken  to  the  station.  If 
It  is  his  third  offence,  and  his  parents  label  him  as 
"beyond  control,"  he  is  good  for  three  or  four  years 
of  reformation  in  a  Home,  and  all  that  that  religious 
word  embroiders. 

The  'Varsity  ruffian  may  break  Into  a  struggling 
tradesman's  shop,  smash  his  windows,  destroy  his 
stock,  and  assault  him,  and  he  is  fined.  The  street 
boy  knocks  an  apple  off  a  stall  and  gets  four  years 
of  slavery.  It's  just  the  difference  between  being 
a  rich  man's  son  and  a  poor  man's  son.  The  one 
commits  burglary,  bringing  perhaps,  disaster  on  a 
familv;  and  it  is  called  a  lark.  The  other  has  a 
lark  which  hurts  nobody,  and  he  Is  called  a  potential 
criminal,  and  sent  to  Borstal  and  kept  good  by  pun- 
ishments VvhIch  have  driven  many  children  to  self 
destruction. 

But  in  any  discussion  of  this  matter  the  advocate 
of  violence  has  always  won,  and,  I  suppose,  always 
will  win.  The  Sadists  can  always  fling  at  the  hu- 
mane man  the  jeer  of  "flabby  sentimentalist,"  and 
under  the  cloak  of  Rough  Manliness,  and  by  eu- 
phemislng  an  obscenity  in  the  cheery  phrase,  "a  jolly 


IN  STREET  OF  BEAUTIFUL  CHILDREN    287 

good  hiding,"  can  gratify  their  lust  for  flogging  and 
get  sanction  for  their  methods.  "Our  treatment 
makes  a  man  of  the  boy."     What  sort  of  man? 

The  foulness  and  shame  of  corporal  punishment 
are  bad  enough  when  it  is  practised  on  grown  ruf- 
fians, but  that  this  outrage  should  be  inflicted  upon 
the  delicacy  of  elder  childhood  is  a  disgrace  to  the 
laws  of  this  country.  The  child's  sense  of  modesty 
is  much  stronger  and  keener  than  the  adult's;  and  if 
it  be  said  that  froward  children  must  be  punished, 
and  that  disgrace  is  an  eftective  punishment,  I  say 
that  the  disgrace  of  whipping  is  not  punishment;  it 
is  an  indecent  assault;  and  every  psychologist  knows 
why  certain  people  plead  for  its  retention.  Indeed, 
there  exists  in  England  to-day  a  body  of  people  anx- 
ious to  promote  corporal  punishment  of  boys  and 
girls,  and  actually  publishing  leaflets  teaching  meth- 
ods of  child-torture.  It  calls  itself  a  League,  and 
makes  eloquent  and  lubricious  appeal  for  the  whip- 
ping, nursery  fashion,  of  disobedient  sons  and 
daughters;  especially  it  recommends  it  for  daugh- 
ters. One  of  their  productions  states  that  "whip- 
ping, to  be  effective,  should  be  a  science."  Then 
follow  elaborately  minute  directions,  written  with 
obvious  relish,  which  I  will  not  offend  you  by  tran- 
scribing, how  to  go  about  this  business;  how  to  un- 
dress the  child,  and  how  to  use  the  hand,  the  slipper, 
the  strap  or  the  cane,  and  a  gloating  insistence  on 
prolonging  the  ceremony  "so  that  the  child  may  feel 


288  THE  LONDON  SPY 

the  disgrace  the  more"  and  on  "the  increased  feeling 
of  shame  as  the  children  grow  older." 

It  is  precisely  the  language  and  style  of  the  litera- 
ture that  is  produced  by  back-street  publishers  in 
Paris  and  Brussels  and  Vienna.  The  police  are  quick 
to  seize  these  productions  when  they  are  mailed  to 
this  country.  Why  the  other  vicious  matter  is  al- 
lowed to  go  through  the  post,  I  don't  know. 

But  the  greatest  cruelty  of  all  is  the  injustice  of 
the  system,  whereby  the  boy,  as  I  have  shown,  who 
indulges  in  a  few  "larks,"  is  dragged  from  home  to 
spend  the  best  years  of  his  youth  behind  walls  and  to 
be  crushed  by  a  system.  Figure  yourself,  charged 
with  having  no  rear-light  on  your  car,  sentenced,  by 
some  monstrous  misreading  of  the  law,  to  two  years' 
hard  labour,  while  similar  offenders  are  fined  twenty 
shillings;  put  in  convict  dress,  cut  off  from  decent 
intercourse,  and,  if,  in  your  first  bitterness,  you  dis- 
obey, punished  with  demeaning  punishments.  In 
that  same  spirit  of  bitterness  against  injustice,  ninety 
reformatory  children  out  of  the  hundred  live  their 
four  or  five  years  of  incarceration.  The  other  ten 
are  perhaps  menaces  to  society,  but  society,  instead 
of  concerning  itself,  individually,  with  the  reclama- 
tion, delegates  the  task  to  "committees,"  "bodies," 
"institutions"  and  their  staffs.  A  sight  of  the  type 
that  composes  the  staffs  should  be  sufficient  to  awaken 
disgust  without  more  intimate  detail.     Hard-faced, 


IN  STREET  OF  BEAUTIFUL  CHILDREN    289 

cold,  pedagogic — that  is  the  type;  creatures  that  once 
were  men;  lip-licking  creatures  capable  of  the  most 
nauseous  kind  of  brutality — brutality  under  orders. 
That  is  the  type  under  whom  these  children  spend 
their  years  of  servitude;  a  pretty  example  for  the 
humanising  and  reshaping  of  the  citizen-to-be. 

Yet  still  the  placid  rich  support  these  places  with 
money,  and  condemn  poor  people's  boys  and  girls  to 
them,  piously  and  with  self-gratulation.  I  wonder 
if  they  know  what  they  are  doing  when  they  send  a 
young  girl  to  a  reformatory,  or  an  intelligent  boy  to 
a  charity  school?  I  hope  not.  I  sincerely  hope  not. 
Still  the  governors  and  directors  send  out  their 
unctuous  appeals  and  prospectuses,  belauding  their 
own  frigid  zeal.  Mr.  Chadband  and  Mr.  Grad- 
grind  have,  happily,  almost  disappeared  from  public 
life,  but  they  are  still  secretly  active  behind  the  walls 
of  our  charities.  Mr.  Barlow  is  there,  too,  superin- 
tending with  his  sleek  admonishments,  driving  his 
dusty  platitudes  through  the  green  territory  of  youth, 
and  presiding  with  ponderous  levity  at  Annual  Festi- 
vals. You  may  perceive  their  touch  in  the  style  of 
the  appeals.     Here  is  one : 

"The  children  form  a  delightful  family  part>'  and  every 
possible  amenity  of  family  life  is  liberally  bestowed  upon 
them.  Nothing  is  left  undone  to  make  the  Home  a  home 
to  which  they  will  look  back  in  years  to  come  as  the  centre 
of  their  lives.  The  girls  are  sensibly  trained  for  domestic 
service,    an    industry   whose   ranks   have   lately   been   sadly 


290  THE  LONDON  SPY 

thinned  by  the  deplorable  spirit  of  the  day;  and  the  boys 
are  trained  for  manual  crafts;  and  the  whole  aim  of  the 
Home  is  to  produce  God-fearing  and  right-minded  citizens." 


Yet  still  they  flourish.  Still  the  money  comes  In 
for  restricting  the  sweet  kingdom  of  childhood.  Still 
the  ugly  triumphs  over  the  beautiful,  the  mean  over 
the  noble;  and  still,  quietly  and  deliberately,  this 
rude,  sharp-faced  phantom  of  charity  and  well-doing 
parades  minclngly  and  self-consciously  with  the 
brotherly  love  of  St.  Paul  and  the  knowledge  and 
love  of  God. 

So,  if  charity  be  in  you,  and  the  means  to  help  the 
unhappy  be  at  your  hand,  may  I  beg  you  to  go  to 
some  trouble  in  the  matter?  Does  it  not  seem  to 
you  that  the  signing  of  a  cheque  for  an  orphanage  is 
but  a  cheap  and  scamping  evasion  of  your  responsi- 
bilities, a  passing-on  of  your  liability?  Even  if  your 
money  were  being  beautifully  used  for  beautiful  ends, 
there  is  little  grace  in  your  lazy  gift.  A  flourish  of 
the  pen  is  little  enough  to  do  for  a  worthy  cause, 
and  here,  I  maintain  the  cause  is  sadly  wanting  in 
beauty.  Better  to  keep  the  money  in  your  pocket 
than  lend  aid  to  these  affairs.  Let  me  beg  you  to 
take  a  little  thought  and  trouble  in  distributing  your 
surplus,  and,  instead  of  abetting,  by  your  signature, 
the  continuance  of  the  Home  system,  find  for  your- 
self some  child  or  person  in  need  (there  are  many  in 


IN  STREET  OF  BEAUTIFUL  CHILDREN   291 

the  Street  of  Beautiful  Children),  and  succour  that 
need  by  direct  action.  Make  that  child's  food,  cloth- 
ing, and  education  your  personal  affair.  It  means 
trouble,  I  know;  a  lot  of  trouble,  spread  over  some 
period;  whereas  the  cheque  relieves  you  immediately 
of  all  thought  or  concern.  You  may  plead  press  of 
affairs;  but  much  that  I  have  written  is  written  from 
personal  knowledge,  and  the  saving  of  one  child 
from  the  squalors  of  a  Home  Is  no  mean  work. 

Putting  it  on  the  lowest  plane  (of  self-interest) 
no  child  has  a  morsel  of  feeling  for  the  Home  or  its 
subscribers,  once  he  Is  out  of  it  (how  should  he 
have?),  but  your  one  child  would  remember  you 
with  gratitude  for  ever. 


—XI— 
IN  THE  STREETS  OF  DON'T-CARE 

AMONG  the  general  public  Bohemia  seems  to 
be  largely  associated  with  third-rate  artists 
and  their  trollops;  men  with  side-whiskers  and  girls 
In  "art"  robes,  whose  motto  is  "Vesti  la  djibbah." 
How  this  notion  got  about  I  don't  know:  Murger,  I 
suppose.  But  in  all  my  experience  I  have  met  few 
real  poets,  artists,  or  musicians  who  are  Bohemians. 
I  have  usually  found  them  as  precise  and  formal  as 
lawyers  are  supposed  to  be. 

But  there  is  a  tractless  Bohemia  in  London.  It 
has  nothing  to  do  with  the  fine  arts.  It  is  peopled 
by  the  real  wandering  Bohemians;  the  common,  hard- 
up  untalented  Cockneys.  Not  at  the  supper-club  or 
the  theatrical  dance  will  you  find  the  nonchalant 
spirit  of  Bohemia.  Bohemia  is  simply  the  habit  of 
being  oneself  at  all  times  and  occasions;  and  you  will 
find  more  of  that  spirit  In  the  Good  Pull  Up  For 
Carmen,  even  In  the  Athenaeum,  than  you  will  in 
these  other  places.  In  the  professional  Bohemia  in- 
dividuality has  little  play.  At  Art  balls  and  revels, 
at  the  Embassy  Club  and  the  Hambone  Club,  every- 
body Is  alike,  all  must  conform  to  the  prevailing 
mood  and  taste,  and  be  gay  or  eccentric  according  to 
the  occasion. 

292 


IN  THE  STREETS  OF  DON'T-CARE      293 

Bohemia  Is  In  the  streets,  not  In  cafes;  In  the 
undistinguished  clothes  of  work-a-day,  not  In 
quaint  or  fancy  apparel.  Get  Into  the  streets,  and 
there  you  will  meet  It,  and  your  wanderings  about 
sunny  pavements  or  In  the  dappled  dusk  of  alleys 
win  thread  your  every  day  with  bright  or  mellow 
hours  of  adventure  or  Intercourse.  Where  the  Cock- 
ney Is,  there  Is  Bohemia,  and,  so  long  as  he  exists,  all 
plans  for  "brightening"  London  are  absurd  redun- 
dances. 

The  war  has  changed  London  but  little,  and  the 
Cockney  hardly  at  all.  There  Is,  perhaps,  some 
spirit  of  restraint  in  the  air,  but  It  has  not  yet  ex- 
pressed Itself  materially.  Everywhere  there  Is  a 
troubled  fumbling  after  "reform"  (whatever  that 
may  be)  ;  a  desire  to  make  things  "better,"  to  put 
down  folly  and  to  work  for  sweetness  and  light; 
but  so  far  this  Is  manifest  only  in  a  purification  of 
certain  of  our  main  streets.  Drink  and  the  prosti- 
tute have  less  latitude  than  of  old.  The  promenades 
of  the  two  famous  halls  have  been  purged,  and  the 
girls  driven  Into  Leicester  Square  and  harried  out 
of  It  by  policewomen  Into  secret  places.  The  Prov- 
ence is  gone;  the  Cafe  de  I'Europe  Is  gone,  and  the 
Lounge  Is  not  itself.  But  what  of  that?  Leicester 
Square  Is  still  Leicester  Square,  London's  happiest 
open  space,  where  one  steps  blithely. 

As  for  the  Cockney,  nothing  changes  him.  He  Is 
the  essential  Bohemian.     The  spirit  of  folly  danced 


294  THE  LONDON  SPY 

when  he  was  born,  and  the  supper-club  people  can 
achieve  only  a  pale  imitation  of  him  and  his  graces. 
He  is  as  he  was  in  Dekker's  day — truculent,  scepti- 
cal, with  large  capacity  for  indignation  and  bright 
strokes  of  raillery;  but  withal  tolerant,  touched  with 
saline  humours,  and  able  to  see  himself  and  laugh  at 
himself.  That  last,  I  think,  is  his  most  notable  trait. 
His  sense  of  humour  plays  not  only  upon  others  but 
upon  himself.  He  cannot  take  himself  seriously. 
He  leaves  solemnity  to  the  acquisitive  Northerner. 
If  those  others  like  to  sweat  and  strive,  let  'em.  He 
prefers  to  taste  life  as  it  comes,  and  getting  on  is  the 
last  thing  that  bothers  him.  The  qualities  that  make 
for  success  are  the  very  qualities  that  most  arouse 
his  laughter — solemnity,  wagon-hitched-to-star,  and 
organised  recreation.  He  does  not  begrudge  this 
success;  he  only  finds  it  unamusing;  and  happily  and 
fitly  he  drops  his  banana-skin  under  the  heels  of 
solemn  soap-merchants  and  solemn  artists. 

The  fashionable  pleasures  of  London  pass  him 
by.  What  does  he  want  v/ith  pleasure,  who  has  joy 
within  him?  The  pleasures  of  the  town  are  never 
made  for  him,  but  for  the  wealthy  immigrants  and 
their  young.  Midnight  suppers,  art  balls,  dance 
clubs  and  revels,  exotic  costume,  the  howl  of  the 
negroid  Pan  and  the  bellow  of  Bacchus  interest  him 
little;  they  are  like  side-shows  at  the  White  City, 
vulgar  "attractions"  for  those  incapable  of  creating 
their  own  entertainment.    Artistic  frivolity  can  never 


IN  THE  STREETS  OF  DON'T-CARE      295 

take  root  in  our  soil.  The  very  name  of  London  is 
a  denial  of  the  term.  Our  native  coarse  gusto  is,  as 
it  were,  a  free  dialect,  and  none  shall  make  a  gram- 
mar of  it.  How  shall  the  elegant  syllables  of  "fri- 
volity" mate  happily  with  the  thunderous  music  of 
"London  ?"    They  shall  not. 

London's  delight  comes  in  big  and  violent  gusts 
from  the  heart,  and  while  I  have  my  banana,  the 
sensation  seekers  may  have  their  supper-clubs  and 
dances.  Let  those  whose  conception  of  a  hot  time 
in  the  old  tov>^n  is  to  dance  all  night,  get  on  with  it. 
Have  you  seen  the  Englishman,  even  the  volatile 
artist-Englishman,  go  through  the  motions  of  what 
he  calls  dancing?  It  is  a  sober  parade  round  a  hot 
room  with  a  woman,  to  the  sticky  rhythms  of  a  thin 
band;  a  stiff,  ungainly  walk,  as  of  school-children 
at  drill,  performed  with  set  face  and  idiotic  eye. 
Strange  that  the  Englishman,  who  cannot  and  never 
will  dance,  has  one  idea  of  winter  entertainment — 
dancing;  that  is,  pottering  about  with  a  half-dressed 
girl.  If  his  reason  for  dancing  lies  in  sex-attraction, 
why  doesn't  he  do  it  properly,  with  cymbals  and  fire, 
and  invocations,  instead  of  with  this  tepid  capering? 
But  the  dance  and  the  ball-room  are  incompatible. 
Frenzy  and  grace  cannot  live  with  white  ties.  I 
have  more  respect  for  the  clerk  who  picks  up  a  girl 
on  the  sea-front  and  salutes  Pan  under  the  cliff,  at 
the  cost  of  a  box  of  chocolates,  than  I  have  for  these 
drawing-room  trotters. 


296  THE  LONDON  SPY 

Four  hundred  years  ago,  the  common  folk  did 
dance  with  frenzy  and  festal  ecstasy,  and  knew  what 
they  were  doing;  and  the  titles  and  sweet  airs  of 
those  old  dances,  and  the  pagan  ritual  that  accom- 
panied them,  bring  happy  echoes  to  an  ear  surfeited 
with  the  machine-made  titles  of  modern  dances: 
"Reve  d'Amour,"  "Whispering,"  "Heart  to  Heart," 
"Shadows,"  "Saucy,"  "Provoking,"  "Powder  Rag," 
and  that  sort  of  thing.  Meaningless  titles  these;  but 
on  sixteenth  century  country  greens  they  did  better. 
Listen — "Green  Stockings,"  "Ropely  Village,"  "The 
Red  Shore,"  "Temple  Bar,"  "Goose  and  Gridiron," 
"Cushion  Dance,"  "Parson's  Green,"  "Windsor 
Tarass,"  "Farise's  Fear,"  "Lie  Down,  Love," 
"Cherry  Breasts,"  "Sellenger's  Round,"  "Packing- 
ton's  Pound,"  "Cuckolds  all  Arow,"  "Joan's  Placket 
is  Undone,"  "Have  at  thy  Coat,"  "Bobbing  Joan," 
"Granny's  Delight,"  "Blowzy  Bella,"  and  "Rub  Her 
Down  with  Straw."  These  are  coarse;  the  former 
only  vulgar. 

There's  a  whole  moral  world  between  the  two 
qualities.  The  professional  Bohemia  is  a  finicky 
and  vulgar  Bohemia;  the  Cockney's,  coarse  and 
human.  Coarseness  is  healthy  and  of  the  spirit; 
vulgarity  an  empty  creation  without  a  soul.  It  is  the 
difference  between  Rabelais  and  the  "London  Mail"; 
between  Falstaff  and  "Fatty"  Arbuckle;  between  the 
restoration  comedies  and  Mr.  Cochran's  select  re- 
vues; between  Bartholomew   Fair   and  the   seaside 


IN  THE  STREETS  OF  DON'T-CARE      297 

Kursaals;  between  the  four-ale  bar  of  a  pub,  and  the 
Cafe  Royal;  between  London  and  Brighton. 

Brighton  prides  itself  on  its  Bohemian  spirit,  and 
certainly  it  has  the  spirit  of  the  vociferous  Bohemia. 
Its  sea-front  on  Sundays  is  a  microcosm  of  this  vul- 
garity; a  galanty-show  of  racing  men,  the  rough  stuff 
of  the  London  stage,   publicans,   third-rate   artists, 
blazing  kerbstone  stockbrokers,  motors,  cigars,  and 
the  sumptuous  "JuHets  of  a  night."    All  these  things 
are  to  be  found,  I  know,  in  equal  measure  in  London, 
but  London  has  better  things  to  balance  them,  while 
Brighton  exists  by  and   for  these  things.      George 
IV.,    most   vulgar   of  many  vulgar   kings,    "made" 
Brightelmstone,  and  I  am  sure  he  would  be  delighted 
with  it  to-day.     The  "fat  Adonis  of  forty"  would 
find  much   congenial   company,    for   the   parade   on 
Sunday  morning  is  a  parade  of  Fatties  and  their  kept 
women.     This  parade   is   rehearsed   on   Saturdays, 
when  life  on  the  Brighton  road  is  made  unbearable 
for  ordinary  people  by  a  whirlwind  of  limousines, 
fatness,  Corona  Coronas,  and  patchouli.     The  shar- 
rabang  may  be  noisy,  but  spontaneous  noise  is  not 
always  so  vulgar  as  certain  demonstrative  attitudes 
in  a  Rolls-Royce.     All  day  the  hills  and  vales  of  the 
Brighton  road  re-echo  wheezily:  "Thank  God  for 
the  war!"     I  think  I  prefer  a  sharrabang  chorus  of 
"Stop  yerticklin',  Jock!" 

Brighton   is  the   Holy   City  of  the    Cheap-Rich. 
When  the  obscure  merchant  has  made  money,  his 


298  THE  LONDON  SPY 

first  thought  is  an  automobile;  his  second — a  week- 
end at  Brighton.  In  the  agreeable  company  of  his 
fellows  and  their  "birds"  at  Brighton  he  learns  to 
talk  of  Women  like  a  nasty-minded  schoolboy;  and, 
by  his  conduct,  he  has  made  a  week-end  at  Brighton 
the  subject  of  smutty  music-hall  jokes.  This  week- 
end is  a  study  of  plethora.  It  is  an  example  of  the 
Cheap-Rich's  notion  of  good  living — Too  Much  of 
Everything. 

It  is  a  strident  display  of  over-dressing,  over-eat- 
ing, over-drinking,  over-spending,  over-indulgence. 
Brighton  beach  in  August  is  no  beautiful  sight,  but 
it  Is  the  resort  of  those  who  have  worked  for  their 
little  escape,  who  have  denied  themselves  and  saved 
against  this  one  bright-beaded  fortnight  of  the  year. 
They  have  a  right  to  let  themselves  go,  and  their 
attitudes  of  negligence  are  not  without  charm.  This 
coarseness  of  the  poor  puts  shame  upon  the  vulgarity 
of  the  rich,  who  destroy  the  beauty  of  the  sea  and 
Interrupt  the  virgin  wind,  and  make  Brighton  ugly 
with  the  ugliness  of  empty,  unearned,  material  suc- 
cess. 

To  the  philosopher,  it  Is  a  more  painful  study  than 
Spltalfields  or  Hoxton  or  Cradley  Heath,  for  joy 
comes  to  these  places;  but  at  Brighton  there  is  only 
pleasure;  and  there  Is  no  sadder  sight  than  that  of 
the  wealthy  fool  trying  to  buy  pleasure  in  life.  For 
him  pleasure  lives  In  glasses  and  on  plates,  In  women 
and  motors.      He  must  have   always   a  car   and  a 


IN  THE  STREETS  OF  DON'T-CARE     299 

group  of  "the  boys,"  or  a  woman,  and  the  crowded 
precincts  of  big  hotels  and  restaurants.  He  has  a 
certain  greasy  appreciation  of  the  fat  things  of  life, 
but  no  zest  in  them.  His  appetite  needs  always  the 
flick  of  the  aperitif 'to  urge  it  to  its  function.  The 
uneasiness  of  surfeit  hangs  about  him.  The  high 
revelries  of  Hampstead  Heath  and  Epping  Forest, 
and  the  crash  of  cymbals  in  dark  mountain  heights, 
carry  some  note  of  animal  ecstasy,  some  cry  of  the 
human  feast;  but  this  poor  parched  phantom  of  fri- 
volity, this  thin  body,  galvanised  into  a  semblance  of 
movement,  arouses  only  disgust. 

He  does  not  cultivate  the  senses;  he  indulges  them. 
He  is  not  a  gourmet,  but  a  glutton.  He  is  not  an 
amorist,  but  a  buyer  of  skirts.  The  man  of  sense 
and  imagination  can  break  the  conventions  quietly — 
and  often  does — but  the  Brighton  visitor  does  not 
make  infidelity  serious.  He  only  makes  it  mean. 
What  his  imagination  cannot  do,  Brighton  does  for 
him.  It  shows  him  how  to  have  what  he  calls  "a 
good  time"  without  any  expenditure  of  taste,  judg- 
ment, sense,  or  manners.  He  need  only  spend  the 
one  thing  he  has — money.  Brighton  will  do  the 
rest. 

But  the  Cockney  Bohemian  makes  his  own  joys; 
he  does  not  buy  them.  Put  him  where  you  will — in 
a  pub,  in  a  ship,  on  the  battlefield.  In  barracks,  in  a 
railway  smash,  In  a  fog,  in  a  desert.  In  the  suburbs, 
in  church,  in  prison,  in  a  mess — and  there  he  will 


300  THE  LONDON  SPY 

create  Bohemia.  At  all  times  and  places,  and  at  all 
ages,  he  is  the  born  Bohemian;  and  though  grey 
hairs  may  ill  become  the  fool  and  jester,  your  elder 
Cockney  continues  to  the  last  to  laugh  sardonically  at 
the  world  and  at  himself.  There  he  stands,  with  his 
feet  on  Bohemian  soil,  a  creature  of  fire  and  salt, 
grimacing  disrespect  at  arid  achievement,  tickling 
us  with  his  humours,  and  Inviting  us,  vehemently,  to 
share  his  stock  of  bananas. 

He  is  to  be  found  in  many  places,  for  he  belongs 
to  no  compact  section.  He  is  in  Islington  and  West- 
minster, in  Stepney  and  Jermyn  Street,  in  Canning 
Town  and  Hoxton  and  Camden  Town,  and  if  his  ac- 
cent and  profanity  are  more  harsh  and  fluent  in 
Lavender  Hill  than  in  Piccadilly,  the  difference  is 
only  of  degree,  for  Bohemianism  Is  no  matter  of 
forms  and  fashions,  of  art  or  music  or  intellectual- 
ism.  It  is  a  state  of  mind.  You  have  it — or  not. 
Lord  Leighton,  who  looked  and  dressed  like  a  dig- 
nitary of  the  Church,  had  It.  Augustus  John,  who 
looks  and  dresses  like  a  comic-paper  Bohemian,  hasn't 
a  touch  of  It.  Which  proves  that  Bohemia  has  noth- 
ing to  do  with  art.  So  don't  look  for  it  In  the  stud- 
ent-world or  in  the  Intellectual  cafes.  The  minds  of 
their  people  are  far,  far  above  the  real  Bohemian- 
ism. Soho  Is  as  near  as  they  get  to  it.  And  Soho 
Is  done. 

There  was  a  time  when  It  was  a  foreign  quarter, 
but   to-day   It   is    as   much   London    as    the    Crystal 


IN  THE  STREETS  OF  DON'T-CARE     301 

Palace  or  Olympia.  It  has  no  lurking  nooks;  no 
inner  circles.  It  was  losing  its  character  before  the 
war,  and  now  it  has  wholly  lost  it,  and  is  become  a 
mart.  The  film  business  hastened  its  destruction  by 
taking  over  large  blocks  of  buildings,  and  buying  out 
little  restaurants  at  fool-prices,  and  changing  them 
into  blaring  business  offices  and  stores  reeking  of 
Judea,  chewing-gum  and  creosote.  To-day  Wardour 
Street,  once  a  street  of  amusing  little  cafes  and 
curio-shops  is  an  avenue  of  film-offices.  Instead  of 
the  discreet  curtained  window  and  the  dish  of  des- 
sert, you  pass  swaggering  windows  filled  with  life- 
size  photographs  of  wide-mouthed  mountebanks, 
pert,  look-at-me  schoolgirls,  and  middle-aged  ma- 
trons trying  to  represent  abandoned  enchantresses. 
As  for  the  cafes  that  yet  remain,  they  are,  if  possible, 
even  more  commercial  in  spirit  than  the  film-offices. 
Once  upon  a  time  Greek  Street,  Frith  Street,  Dean 
Street  and  Old  Compton  Street  were  happy  to  serve 
the  hard-up  Journalist,  the  small-part  actor  and  the 
chorus  girl.  You  could  then  ramble  round  its  blithe 
byways,  and  carefully  choose  your  cafe  and  make 
experiments.  Every  month  or  so  a  new  place  was 
opened;  sometimes  to  close  down  hurriedly,  some- 
times to  rise,  on  the  stepping-stone  of  itself,  to  higher 
things — to  an  elaborate  menu  and  an  untrustworthy 
wine-list.  Then,  each  cafe  had  its  patron  and  pa- 
trone.  If  you  had  dined  there  once,  M'sieu'  or 
Madame,  at  the  door,  had  a  smile  and  a  bow  for 


302  THE  LONDON  SPY 

you  the  second  time,  and  the  third  time  the  waiter 
remembered  whether  you  took  the  fish  or  the  ome- 
lette. They  were  pleased  to  see  you,  and  departed 
you  with  graceful  wishes  "to  the  re-seeing." 

Now,  nobody  wants  you.  You  cannot  wander 
round  and  drift  in  a  choice.  The  thing  has  become 
regulated;  a  function;  and  tables  are  now  booked. 
Tables  booked — in  Soho  !  The  soldiers  on  leave  dis- 
covered Soho,  and  brought  their  women  to  it  from 
Mutton-in-the-jVIarsh;  and  business  began  to  boom. 
Every  dining-hour  became  a  rush-hour.  Proprietors 
and  waiters  had  no  words  for  new  guests  or  old. 
If  there  was  no  table  for  the  old  guest  he  must  go 
elsewhere.  There  was  no  arguing  about  it;  no  tact- 
ful discussion.  If  you  attempted  enquiry  you  were 
likely  to  be  sworn  at  in  Basque.  They  were  busy, 
and  there  was  good  money  in  the  house;  a  lot  they 
cared  about  your  regular  patronage  which  had  helped 
them  when  they  were  beginning.  It  is  this  floating 
but  steady  custom  that  has  crushed  the  happy  atmos- 
phere of  Soho.  The  patron  no  longer  regards 
his  restaurant  as  a  pleasant  place,  an  achievement 
capping  his  long  days  of  waiterhood,  where  he  may 
sit  and  make  friends  with  his  customers,  and  con- 
gratulate them  and  himself  on  his  kitchen.  It  is  a 
business  to  be  built  up,  so  that  he  may  get  away  from 
Soho,  to  Jermyn  Street,  and  choose  his  clients  from 
the  best  people. 

Rudeness  was  widespread  in  England  during  the 


IN  THE  STREETS  OF  DON'T-CARE     303 

war,  but  in  most  quarters  the  armistice  brought 
gentler  manners.  Soho  alone  maintains  its  war-time 
brusquerie  and  impatience.  They  don't  care  whether 
you  come  again  or  not.  They  have  no  interest  in 
you  as  an  individual — only  as  a  customer  to  be  fed 
and  presented  with  a  bill.  You  may  not  choose  your 
table  as  of  old,  they  tell  you  to  sit  "there" — usually 
at  a  table  near  the  hot  kitchen  or  by  the  door  where 
the  draught  enters.  A  certain  cafe  in  Old  Compton 
Street  even  insists  that  two  diners  shall  sit  on  the 
same  side  of  the  table,  not  opposite  each  other.  To 
this  rudeness  they  have  now  added  incompetence. 
The  service  is  slap-dash  and  the  food  poor.  The 
hard-up  journalist  and  chorus-lady  wanted  value  for 
their  shilling.  They  paid  attention  to  what  they  ate 
and  drank,  for  often  it  was  the  only  meal  of  the  day. 
But  Soho  knows  that  its  present  clientele  doesn't 
care.  "Dining  in  Soho"  is  the  idea,  and  they  eat  the 
indifferent  food,  and  drink  the  spirituous  and  ex- 
pensive wines,  and  pay  the  excessive  bill,  without  a 
murmur.  And,  if  they  don't  come  again,  Soho  doesn't 
care.  There  are  always  others.  Soho  knows  the 
truth  of  the  old  adage — "there's  one  born  every 
minute." 

Instead  of  the  good  value  of  the  shilling  lunch  and 
the  one-and-sixpenny  dinner,  we  have  the  badly- 
served,  carelessly-cooked  dinner  at  four  and  five  shill- 
ings ;  and  instead  of  the  rough  but  decent  "ordinaire," 
we  have  a  high-priced  wine  list  of  grocer's  red  and 


304  THE  LONDON  SPY 

white  wines,  doctored,  and  wearing  false  labels. 
For  there  is  no  law  against  describing  vin  ordinaire 
as  Margaux,  or  sticking  the  label  "Beaujolais"  on  an 
ordinary  white  wine. 

Some  day  Soho  will  discover  that  this  doesn't 
pay,  and  will  try  to  get  back  to  the  old  methods  and 
prices.  They  may  do  that;  but,  alas,  they  will  never 
recapture  the  old  spirit.  Once  that  is  tampered  with, 
it  can  never  be  adjusted.  You  may  alter  your  ways, 
and  repent,  but  if  you  tarnish  the  soul  you  can  no 
more  recover  its  freshness  than  you  can  recover  yes- 
terday. 

Fortunately,  for  the  modest  and  hard-up  diner, 
for  whom  Providence  always  moves,  as  the  old  Soho 
went  down,  another  arose  in  its  place,  in  the  old 
German  Quarter  on  the  North  Side  of  Oxford  Street. 
In  that  square  made  by  Oxford  Street,  Tottenham 
Court  Road,  Newman  Street,  and  Tottenham  Street, 
new  cafes  are  arising  at  intervals,  and  old  German 
cafes  re-appearing  under  Swiss  management.  Oh, 
yes,  and  the  lager  is  coming  back,  and  the  long 
glasses,  and  the  thin  cigars.  These  places  cherish 
the  spirits  of  welcome  and  personal  acquaintance 
with  their  customers. 

The  L'Etoile,  one  of  the  older  group,  is  my  fa- 
vourite. It  makes  no  attempt  at  decoration  or  table 
display.  Its  note  and  its  cuisine  are  bourgeois.  But 
you  get  there  the  exciting  minestrone,  which  is  a 
meal  in  itself;  the  perfect  omelette,  the  elegant  cut- 


IN  THE  STREETS  OF  DON^-CARE      305 

let,  and  all  the  cheeses  in  the  piquant  moment  of 
maturity.  You  get,  too,  fresh  materials,  good  cook- 
ing, deft  service,  and  the  affable  greeting  on  the 
threshold.  And  at  prices  less  than  the  prices  of  the 
flaring  and  sticky  Corner  Houses.  Out  of  no  ill-will 
to  the  proprietors,  but  for  my  own  gratification,  I 
hope  it  and  the  other  cafes  will  never  become  popu- 
lar, for  then  art  and  suburbia  will  descend  upon  them 
and  ruin  them.  At  present  they  are  patronised 
mainly  by  elderly  scholars  from  the  Museum  Read- 
ing Room,  and  young  students  from  Bloomsbury. 

Bloomsbury  is  not  Bohemia,  but  it  has  a  happy 
tone.  The  fragrance  of  literature  hangs  about  the 
very  stones  and  trees  of  this  region  of  squares.  The 
poets  and  novelists  of  the  past  are  represented  by 
poets  and  novelists  of  to-day;  and  at  the  gates  of 
the  British  Museum,  and  its  library  of  the  past, 
stands  modestly  the  less  pretentious  library  of  to- 
day of  Mr.  Mudie.  Where  the  patrons  of  litera- 
ture once  held  their  levees,  now  a  group  of  publish- 
ers— so  much  more  useful  than  any  patron — have 
their  offices. 

Bloomsbury  was  never,  I  think,  so  bad  as  it  has 
been  painted.  Certainly  it  has  had  its  up  and  downs, 
but  vicissitude  is  evidence  of  character.  From  a» 
centre  of  the  residences  of  what  was  once  called  the 
"nobility  and  gentry,"  it  sank  to  letting  cheap  lodg- 
ings to  an  assorted  crowd  of  workers  and  students — 
"the  ignobly  decent" — and  characters  ignoble  with- 


306  THE  LONDON  SPY 

out  decency.  Then,  being  at  the  gates  of  Euston, 
King's  Cross,  and  St.  Pancras,  it  enjoyed  a  period 
of  prosperity  by  its  quiet  and  not  too  cheap  hotels, 
in  whose  lounges  placid  old  ladies  wielded  crochet 
needles.  Now  it  is  again  in  favour  as  a  residential 
quarter,  and  its  hotels  are  reiuvenated.  The  decent 
houses  of  its  squares  are  entering  their  second  pe- 
riod, some  as  town  houses,  others  as  offices  of  digni- 
fied businesses  or  learned  and  charitable  societies. 
Its  dinge,  melancholy,  and  resigned  squalor,  which  did 
exist,  though  not  so  densely  as  George  Gissing  be- 
lieved, are  wholly  gone.  Belgravia  has  fallen  down, 
but  Bloomsbury  has  "come  back."  It  is  time  for  the 
novelist  to  give  us  a  Bloomsbury  romance. 

It  is  now  as  neat  and  trim  as  Mayfair,  and  its 
history  is  much  more  illustrious.  The  tall  plane 
trees  of  Bedford  Square  are  greener  and  more  stately 
than  the  trees  of  Berkeley  Square.  The  houses  are 
fresh  and  carefully  kept.  The  squares  are  pools  of 
green  light.  It  is  preened  and  polished;  bright  with 
little  hotels  and  gay  with  flower-boxes  and  green 
doors  and  shining  knockers.  Its  straight  deliberate 
streets  are  broken  by  the  chatter  and  movement  of 
the  students;  and  in  the  doorways  of  the  hotels  cool- 
frocked  girls  sit  regarding  the  gentle  confusion  of 
the  traffic. 

A  wondrous  renascence  has  come  particularly  to 
Gower  Street.  In  the  early  nineteenth  century  it 
was  a  select  residential  district;  at  the  end  of  the 


IN  THE  STREETS  OF  DON'T-CARE     307 

nineteenth  century  it  went  into  a  decline,  and  its  repu- 
tation became  associated  with  that  of  Euston  Road, 
of  lodgings  for  the  night  and  no  questions  asked. 
Its  odour  was  rank.  Then  suddenly,  there  came  a 
change.  It  staggered  up  and  recovered  its  self-re- 
spect; and  to-day  it  is  an  address  of  which  the  most 
circumspect  need  not  be  ashamed.  In  it  are  the 
homes  of  Sir  Anthony  Hope  Hawkins  and  Lady 
Diana  Duff-Cooper.  What  a  recovery!  And  in  its 
midst  are  the  very  tents  of  youth — the  huts  of  the 
India  and  Ceylon  branch  of  the  Y.  M.  C.  A.  where 
graciously  gowned  Indian  girls  and  tailor-maid 
youths  lounge  or  saunter;  University  College;  and 
the  magnificent  hostels  of  two  big  drapery  firms. 
The  garret  in  Bloomsbury,  and  the  starvation  that 
must,  by  tradition,  go  with  a  garret,  are  legends  of 
long  yesterday.  The  young  literary  amateur  from 
the  provinces,  coming  to  Bloomsbury,  may  banish 
from  his  memory  the  dim  pages  of  "New  Grub 
Street."  He  will  not  find  it  there.  There  still  is  a 
New  Grub  Street,  but  its  inhabitants  do  not  live  in 
Bloomsbury  or  frequent  the  Museum  Reading  Room 
for  their  work.  The  solid  article,  involving  research, 
is  little  wanted  to-day;  brighter  stuf? — brighter  and 
shorter — is  what  is  wanted;  and  this  is  the  work  that 
is  done  in  New  Grub  Street;  this  and  advertisement- 
writing. 

Bohemia  must  be   sought   elsewhere.     It  is   not 
here,  nor  is  it  in  Leicester  Square  or  in  that  cafe  so 


308  THE  LONDON  SPY 

famous  among  the  Universities.  You  will  find  many 
things  there,  but  little  that  is  amusing  or  stimulating. 
You  will  find  there  a  certain  deliberate  schoolboy 
assumption  of  Bohemlanism,  but  nothing  more.  For 
a  man  is  no  more  consciously  a  Bohemian  or  a 
genius  than  he  is  consciously  happy  or  consciously 
healthy.  If  you  discovered  your  true  Bohemian, 
and  called  him  to  his  face  a  Bohemian,  he  would  in- 
dignantly repudiate  the  suggestion.  He  would  af- 
firm his  hatred  of  moral  obliquity  and  insist  on  his 
respectability,  and  call  witnesses  to  prove  it.  It  is 
your  mediocrity,  who,  to  escape  public  indifference, 
has  to  dress  like  a  member  of  the  chorus  of  "La 
Boheme."  The  gargoyle  attitude  of  life,  which  is 
triumphant  here,  has  little  to  do  with  Bohemia,  and 
good  Bohemians  are  not  now  to  be  found  there.  It 
has  outlived  tradition  and  ceased  to  function,  and  is 
now  merely  a  show-place  for  tourists. 

I  would  call  it  the  dirtiest  place  In  London.  The 
ventilation  is  poor,  and  the  evening  air  is  thick  with 
smoke  and  scent.  The  marble  tables  carry  brown 
rings  of  coffee  cups  and  spillings  of  beer.  The  wait- 
ers are  slack  and  dispirited  and  none  too  well  kempt; 
the  effect,  maybe,  of  a  year's  evenings  among  that 
company  and  that  talk.  The  place  suggests  a  woman 
in  a  fine  evening  robe  and  dirty  finger-nails.  The 
latter  is  a  distinguishing  mark  of  much  of  the  com- 
pany. 

Healthy    animalism    finds    no    expression    here. 


IN  THE  STREETS  OF  DON'T-CARE      309 

Laughter  is  seldom  heard,  and  the  hilarious  binge  is 
frowned  upon.  No  note  of  youthful  folly  arises; 
no  exuberance  even  in  attack.  All  is  considered  and 
deliberate;  a  spectacle  of  solemn  young  people  try- 
ing to  be  "different,"  wearing  the  absurd  trappings 
of  Murger's  country,  which  existed  only  at  the  point 
of  his  pen,  and  trying  to  invoke  the  Russian  over- 
soul  with  thin  drinks;  young  men  with  pink  socks  and 
pink  voices  fumbling  with  the  arts,  and  trying  to 
forget  that  they  came  from  Liverpool.  Except  for 
the  presence  of  certain  types  of  male  and  female,  the 
place  would  be  inexpressibly  dull.  But  here  and 
there  may  be  seen  queer  creatures.  There  sits  a  her- 
maphroditic creature  with  side-whiskers  and  painted 
eyelashes,  praising  that  dear  boy  Oggy  for  the  exqui- 
site mood-values  of  his  "Moments  of  Nausea." 
There  are  things  in  women's  clothes  that  slide  cun- 
ning eyes  upon  other  women.  Male  dancers  who 
walk  like  fugiti'ves  from  the  City  of  the  Plain. 
Hard-featured  ambassadors  from  Lesbos  and 
Sodom.  These,  and  the  pseudo-intellectuals,  make 
up  an  atmosphere  cold  and  flaccid.  If  the  occasion 
were  an  orgy  of  vice,  it  would  at  least  have  some  in- 
terest as  a  pathological  manifestation;  but  it  isn't. 
It  is  a  thoroughly  respectable  affair,  conforming  to 
every  point  of  the  public  code  of  order.  The  com- 
pany has  neither  the  quick  leap  of  the  fresh  youth 
nor  the  bold  relish  of  the  beast,  but  something  be- 
tween; something  crawling  and  discreet;  something 


310  THE  LONDON  SPY 

epicene.  And  it  Is  worse  because  it  is  Intellectually 
cultivated. 

It  is  bad  enough  when  It  goes  without  brains,  as 
among  the  painted  boys  and  their  ponces,  to  be  seen 
In  certain  rendezvous  in  Edg^vare  Road  and  behind 
Mayfair.  You  may  know  these  places  by  the  strong 
odour  of  scent  when  you  enter  them,  and  the  ab- 
sence of  women.  The  sweet  boys  stand  at  the 
counter,  or  lounge,  beautifully  apparelled  and 
groomed,  in  chairs,  under  the  wandering  eyes  of 
middle-aged,  grey-faced  men.  Towards  these  they 
ogle  and  simper.  But  most  of  them  were  born  like 
that,  and  they  are  much  less  offensive  than  those  who 
combine  their  paederasty  with  poesy. 

Well,  the  Cafe  of  the  Marvellous  Boys  isn't  Bo- 
hemia. Neither  art  not  eccentricity,  neither  excess 
nor  wit  are  necessary  parts  of  the  vagabond  life. 
Bohemia  lies  everywhere  about  you,  except  in  studios, 
for  these  are  serious  workshops;  you  are  as  likely 
to  find  it  there  as  behind  the  grille  of  the  Bank  of 
England.  But  you  will  find  It  in  East  India  Dock 
Road,  among  the  marine  students;  in  Smithfield  and 
Bermondsey,  among  the  mad  medicals;  In  South  Ken- 
sington, among  the  science  men;  In  certain  houses  In 
Streatham  and  Ilford;  in  Charing  Cross  Road  and 
in  Knightsbrldge.  The  four-ale  bar  Is  Bohemia. 
The  suburban  monkey's  parade  Is  Bohemia.  Hamp- 
stcad  Heath  at  night  is  Bohemia.  Upper  Street, 
Islington,  on  Saturdays,  Is  Bohemia.    In  every  corner 


IN  THE  STREETS  OF  DON'T-CARE      311 

of  the  great  bazaar  of  London  the  ardent  shopper 
of  humanity  will  find  the  stalls  loaded  with  bunches 
of  Bohemian  bananas,  not  to  be  bought  or  bargained 
for,  but  to  be  had  for  the  taking.  The  good  stout 
London  air  is  the  very  smell  of  Bohemia. 

A  Frenchman,  forgetful  of  his  nation's  chief  qual- 
ity, said  that  the  smell  of  London  was  beer.  He  was 
wrong.  It  is  a  thick,  aromatic  smell,  certainly,  but 
It  cannot  be  so  easily  named.  Two  things  that  you  can- 
not describe  are  voices  and  smells;  and  the  smell  of 
London  defies  all  analysis  or  comparison.  It  is  just 
London,  and  it  is  concentrated  under  the  glass  roofs 
of  Euston,  Marylebone,  St.  Pancras,  Charing  Cross, 
and  Paddington  and  Waterloo,  to  welcome  the 
stranger,  as  the  smell  of  Paris  welcomes  him  at  St. 
Lazare  or  Gare  du  Nord. 

One  often  hears  of  those  legendary  country  trip- 
pers to  London,  who  never  leave  the  station  of  their 
arrival,  but  spend  their  day  there.  Why  should  they 
go  outside?  Under  that  roof  they  can  inhale  es- 
sence of  London;  and  if  they  went  outside  though 
they  might,  in  a  few  hours,  see  more  of  London, 
they  would  get  no  keener  sense  of  London  than  the 
station  can  supply.  This  station  atmosphere  works 
each  way.  It  can  give  you  as  much  of  the  spirit  of  the 
country  and  the  provinces,  as  the  places  themselves, 
and  I  have  often  indulged  my  mood  of  travel  with 
a  few  hours  at  one  or  other  of  our  termini.  In  my 
hard-up  time  I  did  a  vast  deal  of  travelling  without 


312  THE  LONDON  SI^Y 

trains.  In  none  does  the  lust  of  travel  burn  more 
fiercely  than  in  myself.  I  am  a  roamer  bold  and 
gay — or  would  be,  if  I  had  my  way.  But  in  my 
penurious  days,  travel  was  not  possible,  except,  on 
occasion,  by  the  kind  assistance  of  the  National 
Sunday  League;  so  I  deceived  myself  by  a  passable 
counterfeit.  When  the  desire  came  upon  me  to  quit 
my  Brixton  lodging,  and  pitch  my  tent  under  the 
walls  of  Teheran  or  Kabul,  I  assuaged  the  passion 
by  visiting  Poplar  and  the  Asiatic's  Home.  Never 
could  I  rest  long  in  one  place.  A  glimpse  in  passing 
of  a  shipping  company's  posters  would  set  up  a 
yearning  for  travel  that  was  only  gratified  by  mov- 
ing to  Camden  Town.  I  have  had  homes  in  Clap- 
ham,  Eltham,  Balham,  Bloomsbury,  and  Highgate. 
Oh,  I've  been  about  in  my  time,  I  tell  you.  I  am  like 
that  great  traveller  who  interrupted  so  frequently 
Irvin  Cobb's  descriptions  of  his  European  tour,  with 
corrections,  prompting,  and  amplifications  of  his 
own,  he  having  made  the  tour  year  by  year.  Finally, 
when  Cobb's  best  description  was  interjected  by  a 
pointless  correction,  Cobb  turned  upon  the  cosmo- 
politan— "Oh,  all  right — you  tell  'em  about  it,  Gold- 
Flsh.     You've  been  round  the  globe !" 

When  fares  to  English  beauty  spots  were  cheap,  I 
could  not  find  the  money.  Now  that  they  are  ex- 
pensive, I  still  cannot  find  the  money.  But  I  still 
travel.  I  keep  Bradshaw  and  the  A.  B.  C.  on  my 
desk,  and  I  plan  meetings  at  Windermere,  and  book 


IN  THE  STREETS  OF  DON'T-CARE      313 

bedrooms  at  the  "Feathers,"  "Ludlow,"  and  "The 
Lygon  Arms,"  Broadway,  and  take  the  waters  at 
Aix,  and  obey  Mr.  Thomas  Cook  by  preparing  to 
winter  in  Madeira.  This,  of  course,  is  not  my  full 
programme:  imagination,  assisted  by  the  printed 
page,  is  not  sufficient  to  transport  me  into  the  full 
air  of  these  places,  and  lend  me  their  smell.  I  must 
have  material  contact;  the  senses  must  be  fed.  And 
I  feed  them  at  the  big  stations.  By  seeing  the  Con- 
tinental trains  off  at  Charing  Cross  and  Victoria,  I 
am  abroad.  By  taking  a  drink  in  a  little  bar  in 
Drummond  Street,  adjoining  Euston,  I  travel  to  the 
North- West  and  Scotland. 

Hither  come  old  matrons,  with  infinite  baggage 
and  strange  accent  and  behaviour,  who  open  each 
sentence  with  "Ey,  dear";  and  at  these  words  I  am 
in  the  horrid  wastes  of  Lancashire,  and  the  stinks 
that  belong  to  it.  I  meet  Scottish  travellers  from 
Perth,  smelling  of  dye-works,  and  black  melancholy 
Irishmen,  booked  for  Holyhead.  I  overhear  their 
plans  for  the  journey.  I  share  their  anticipated 
discomforts,  and  their  troubles  in  the  matter  of 
sustenance,  and  sometimes  I  assist  them  by  tipping 
the  cheap  sandwich  shop  round  the  corner.  I  learn 
from  them  what  are  the  "hours  of  opening"  in  their 
corner  of  England.  I  learn  that  the  tea  at  Punk- 
ton  Junction  is  hogwash,  and  that  Preston  serves  a 
champion  cup  of  coffee.  In  this  bar  the  heathery 
air  of  Scotch  hills,  the  crisp  air  of  Yorkshire,  and 


314!  THE  LONDON  SPY 

the  soggy  air  of  the  Midlands  are  to  be  absorbed  in 
fancy. 

If  my  desire  is  Cornwall  or  Somerset,  I  take  a 
bus  to  a  little  saloon  in  London  Street,  near  Padding- 
ton,  where  I  am  sure  to  find  good  company  in  gaiters 
and  frieze  coats,  who  will  call  me  "myn,"  and  talk 
in  sweet,  rich  southern  tones  of  the  iniquities  of 
London  publicans  who  sell  sweet  stuff  in  bottles — 
yes,  bottles — and  call  it  cyder.  And  again  I  tramp 
over  Exmoor,  or  lounge  in  the  villages  of  Dorset; 
or  I  may  smell  the  dreadful  smell  of  wet  coal,  which 
is  the  smell  of  the  Rhondda  Valley;  for  here  are 
many  high-voiced,  high-strung  lads  from  South 
Wales. 

Only  the  other  day  I  made  a  journey  to  Newcastle, 
via  Peterboro,  Lincoln,  Doncaster,  York,  and  Dur- 
ham; for,  in  a  restaurant  anigh  King's  Cross,  I  came 
upon  a  group  of  rasp-voiced  men,  and  was  drawn 
into  conversation.  We  fell  to  talking  of  their  home- 
ward journey,  and  as  the  group  included  natives  of 
each  of  those  towns,  I  was  able  to  re-visit  them. 
We  talked  of  hotels,  bars,  local  characters  and  local 
tradesmen;  whether  the  War  Memorial  had  yet 
been  unveiled  in  this  city;  whether  that  horse-faced 
scoundrel  was  still  on  the  magistrates'  bench  in  that 
city;  whether  the  manager  of  the  Empire  at  t'other 
place  still  wore  evening  dress  and  pink  socks.  I 
came  away  with  a  feeling  that  I  was  returning  to 
town  after  many  weeks  of  provincial  touring,  and 


IN  THE  STREETS  OF  DON'T-CARE      315 

filled  with  fresh  joy  in  London  and  the  million  ameni- 
ties of  its  streets;  those  streets  that  hold  for  each 
of  us  some  sleeping  beauty  waiting  only  for  our 
awakening  touch;  the  streets  of  Bohemia. 

I  know  of  but  one  Club  in  London  that  truly  is 
Bohemian  in  character  and  style.  The  so-called  Bo- 
hemian clubs  are  somewhat  depressing  with  their 
solemn  heavy  furniture  and  their  diligent  boyish- 
ness. You  cannot  have  a  Bohemia  with  money  and 
an  etiquette  or  standard  of  things  "done"  and  "not 
done" ;  but  these  places  have  a  lengthy  code  of  things 
forbidden;  and  if  a  true  Bohemian  happens  to  get 
into  their  company  they  are  sorely  perplexed.  It  is 
easier  to  shock  your  professional  Bohemian  than  to 
shock  a  Y.  M.  C.  A.  meeting.  They  profess  to  ac- 
cept life  in  all  its  nude  manifestations ;  but  show  them 
an  ugly  corner  of  life,  and  they  are  disturbed.  They 
paint  ugly  things  and  talk  about  ugly  things,  but  bring 
them  face  to  face  with  concrete  hideousness,  and 
they  turn  away.  They  wither  at  an  unaccustomed 
word.  For  at  bottom  they  are  dishonest,  and  their 
loves  and  their  hates  are  forgeries. 

I  once  took,  to  a  very  advanced  and  rorty  night- 
club that  thought  it  was  a  Hell  Fire  Club,  a  thor- 
ough rapscallion  whom  I  had  picked  up  in  St. 
Luke's;  a  true  Bohemian  who  had  no  code  or  stand- 
ard of  values  for  anything  in  life;  a  bruiser  who 
had  been  as  often  in  prison  as  in  the  ring;  and  I 
was  asked  not  to  bring  him  again.     They  hinted  to 


316  THE  LONDON  SPY 

me  that  my  action  was  ift  bad  taste.     "Hang  it  all, 
you  know,  old  man  ...  I  mean  to  say  .   .  ." 

I  say  I  know  but  one  Bohemian  club.  It  is  a 
night-club,  but  it  has  none  of  the  trappings  of  the 
West  End  night-club.  To  get  to  it,  you  turn  from  St. 
Bride  Street  up  an  alley,  and  turn  down  another 
alley,  and  a  small  door  admits  you  into  a  large  bare- 
floored  room  with  bar  and  tables.  It  is  the  News- 
paper Worker's  Club,  chiefly  for  the  printing  sec- 
tion, but  also  used  by  members  of  editorial  staffs. 
The  bar  opens  at  eleven  P.  m.  and  remains  open  till 
four  in  the  morning;  and  meals  are  served  at  all 
times. 

Better  meals  in  value  than  any  West  End  supper- 
club  will  give  you;  right  nourishing  meals  at  prices 
that  astonish.  Well,  you  can  sup  splendidly  there  for 
a  shilling.  Its  soup  is  as  good  as  mother  makes, 
and  its  atmosphere  is  an  atmosphere  of  mateyness 
and  rich  rude  pleasantry.  At  about  one  in  the  morn- 
ing it  is  most  busy.  Then  troop  in  the  men  from 
the  printing  departments  of  the  dailies,  and  things 
become  amusing.  The  printer's  vocabulary,  by  his 
calling,  is  extensive  and  apt,  and  his  language  makes 
even  sergeant-majors  feel  inept  and  small.  Stories 
float  about,  and  snuff  is  taken.  Downstairs  are  an- 
other bar  and  two  billiards-tables,  and  Ted  (I'm  not 
sure  if  it's  still  Ted),  who  command  affairs.  The 
appointments  are  simple  and  rough,  but  this  place 
has  all  that  a  club  should  have  in  social  facilities  and 


IN  THE  STREETS  OF  DON'T-CARE     317 

diversions.  Many  midnight  hours  have  I  spent 
there  when  all  other  doors  were  closed;  and  many  an 
air-raid  night  passed  Bohemianly  in  that  basement 
with  one  of  Ted's  schooners  before  me,  and  Ted  and 
a  group  of  members  round  the  billiards-table  or  with 
the  darts. 

It  has  no  motto,  no  "note,"  and  its  annual  sub- 
scription is  about  the  price  of  a  Strand  lun&h. 
(Which  reminds  me  that  I  haven't  paid  mine  for 
over  three  years.)  There,  you  may  do  what  you 
like,  and  be  truly  yourself,  and  let  others  be  them- 
selves; and  if  you  are  told,  as  I  have  been  told,  that 
if  you  can't — well  play — billiards,  why  don't  you — 
well  give  up  the — table  to  those  who — well  can,  you 
will  see  the  justice  of  the  rebuke  and  make  way,  and 
return  flourish  for  flourish — all  in  the  friendliest 
spirit.  You  are  under  no  restraint  whatever.  Don't 
think  that  I  am  approving  bad  language  or  too-easy 
behaviour.  I  am  only  thinking  that  we  have 
enough  restraint  at  every  turn  of  our  over-governed 
lives,  and  that  a  club  should  be  the  one  place  where 
restraint  is  eased  and  conduct  given  free  play — for 
good  or  ill. 

But,  oh,  dear!  suppose  you  spoke  your  mind  in 
plain  terms  at  the  Studio  Club  in  Regent  Street  (a 
very  arty  affair)  or  the  Hambone  Club  in  Ham 
Yard,  a  futurist  den,  where  impromptu  concerts  are 
supposed  to  beguile  the  midnight  hours.  I'm  sure 
you  would  be   asked  to  leave.     But  I  don't  think 


318  THE  LONDON  SPY 

you'd  lose  much.  Those  concerts — they  speak  rather 
of  local  talent  in  the  Corn  Exchange.  I  prefer  my 
little  cafe  near  Great  Queen  Street,  the  Cafe  of  the 
Forlorn.  It  is  really  a  working-men's  eating-house, 
but  other  than  working-men  use  it.  You  will  find 
there  no  bright  names,  no  "coming"  men  or  success- 
ful artists.  It  is  the  rendezvous  of  the  Failures, 
and  is  happier  and  more  stimulating  than  any  gath- 
ering-place of  well-knowns.  It  has  no  concerts,  no 
"art"  frescoes,  no  dancing,  no  hambones.  But  it 
has  a  warm,  kindly  atmosphere,  and  you  may  there 
have  ripe  talk  with  sound  intelligences. 

It  is  near  Bruce  House,  the  L.  C.  C.  apartment- 
block;  and  to  it  come  the  impoverished  scholars  and 
poor  gentlemen  of  letters  from  their  municipal  lodg- 
ing. They  are  not  regular  customers:  for  they  are 
the  real  Bohemians  for  whom  there  are  days  when 
they  must  dine  with  the  sparrows.  But  when  there 
is  a  good  time  and  two  or  three  of  them  are  there, 
taking  a  cut  from  the  joint  and  two  veg.,  you  will 
be  in  rare  company.  Friendless  and  battered,  they 
can  produce  among  themselves  more  merriment  and 
true  delight  than  twenty  studio  clubs.  Each  is  a 
character,  and  each  maintains  that  character. 

One  famous  and  successful  man  is  much  like  an- 
other. In  the  achieving  of  success  or  fame,  men 
seem  to  shed  something  of  personality  and  angles. 
In  securing  the  bone,  they  lose  the  enduring  shadow. 
They  are  stamped  and  marked,  like  pieces  of  plate. 


IN  THE  STREETS  OF  DON'T-CARE     319 

But  the  failures  remain  themselves.  They  have 
quaint  twists  of  character.  They  talk  better  and 
more  freely  than  the  famous.  They  have  nothing 
to  hide,  and  nothing  to  fear.  They  do  not  strive  to 
flatter  and  placate  you.  They  do  not  quail  at  giving 
offence  if  honesty  compels  it.  Asking  nothing  of 
the  world,  they  are,  by  general  understanding,  ex- 
empt from  the  world's  petty  observances  and  reti- 
cences. They  will  tell  you  the  truth  about  them- 
selves, or  about  yourself,  without  suppression  or 
demur;  and  if  you  offer  them  money  they  accept  it 
openly  and  casually,  with  a  nod. 

In  that  eating-house,  or  in  the  adjacent  saloon,  I 
have  sat  often  among  them,  and  heard  great  argu- 
ment. Possessing  abilities  in  large  measure,  they  have 
no  capacity  for  applying  them.  One  is  a  poet,  one  an 
advertisement-writer  (though  seldom  in  work,  being 
unreliable  in  delivery  of  copy) ,  one  a  fiction-writer, 
and  one  a  Doctor  of  Divinity.  All  are  scholars  and 
good  talkers;  and  such  talk  passes  between  them  that 
often  old  Jack,  the  owner  of  the  eating-house,  will 
lounge  against  one  of  the  pews  and  listen  to  them, 
interested  and  perplexed.  He  doesn't  quite  know 
what  to  make  of  them,  but  there  is  a  nice  distinction 
between  his  manner  towards  them  and  his  manner 
to  his  reg'lars,  the  draymen  and  lorrymen.  He  rec- 
ognises that  they  are  "out  of  the  ordinary."  He 
asked  me  once  who  they  were,  and  I  said  I  thought 
they  were  journalists. 


320  THE  LONDON  SPY 

"Journalists — ah !  I  thought  they  must  be  some- 
thing. I  don't  understand  everything  they  talk, 
about,  but  I  could  sit  and  listen  to  'em  for  hours. 
That  white-'aired  one — the  way  'e  spouts — on  and 
on — never  at  a  loss  for  a  word,  like,  is  'e?" 

I  first  met  them  through  the  advertisement-writer. 
I  was  sitting  alone  one  evening  in  a  Drury  Lane 
tavern,  watching  the  only  other  customer.  He  was 
a  dim,  seedy,  smudgy  fellow,  looking  the  worse  for 
the  flotsam  of  decency  that  hung  about  him;  and  he 
intensified  his  rusty  clothes,  which  were  just  not 
ragged,  by  drawing  from  his  sleeve  a  spotless  pocket- 
handkerchief.  When  he  had  used  this  and  drained 
his  tankard,  looking  deeply  Into  it,  and  sighing,  he 
looked  at  me  and  spoke : 

*Prmm  !  As  the  poet  says  *Go  look  into  a  pewter- 
pot  to  see  the  world  as  the  world's  not.'  " 

"Poet?"  I  said.  Then  my  mind  took  a  quick  leap, 
and  saved  me.  "Oh  .  .  .  'Shropshire  Lad.'  Might 
I  help  you  to  see  a  little  more  of  the  world?" 

"Why,  you  seem  to  be  an  intelligent  young  man. 
It  would  give  me  pleasure,  sir,  to  drink  with  you 
at  your  charge." 

I  passed  the  appropriate  compliment,  and  ordered 
two.  Then  leaving  his  untouched,  he  fell  to  dis- 
cussing the  state  of  the  world  to-day  and  its  trend, 
with  allusions  to  Carlyle,  Matthew  Arnold,  Goethe, 
and  Bergson.  He  filled  a  grimy  clay  pipe  with  as- 
sorted shreds  of  tobacco  which  he  fished  piecemeal 


IN  THE  STREETS  OF  DON'T-CARE     321 

from  his  pocket,  lit  it,  and  between  puffs,  jerked  out 
reflective  sentences  on  the  Over-Soul,  The  four-ale 
bar  was  beginning  to  fill.  The  crowd  mumbled  of 
football  and  the  spring  weights.  The  barmaid  sim- 
pered or  snapped,  varying  her  manner  to  the  cus- 
tomer: and  through  the  rumble  my  gentleman  went 
steadily  on.  Emerson  ...  St.  Augustine  .  .  . 
Rousseau  .   .   .  Voltaire  .   .  . 

Then  another  wreck  joined  us.  He  had  the  face 
and  figure  of  Edward  Grieg,  and  was,  I  learned 
later,  the  poet,  who  wrote  rhymes  for  the  facetious 
papers. 

"Ah,  Bilton.     Any  luck?" 

The  white  hair  shook. 

"Nor  here,  either.  Damn  the  lot  of  'em — fat- 
faced  troglodytes.  I  have  just  had  the  good  luck 
of  drinking  with  my  young  friend  here — and  that's 
all.  And  even  with  him  I'm  not  very  lucky.  I  try 
to  stir  him  with  Carlylean  denunciations  of  the  times 
and  he  says  nothing.  But  I  think  if  you  invited  him, 
he  would  join  you  In  a  drink  at  his  expense.  I  tried 
it,  and  it  came  off." 

That  was  the  beginning  of  four  amusing  hours. 
Soon,  others  of  their  party  came  in,  and  with  the 
arrival  of  each  I  was  indicated  as  the  host. 

"I  have  had  the  good  fortune,  Davy,  to  make  a 
friend  of  a  young  man  with  money.  Come — let 
us  spoil  him." 

It  was  a  meeting  of  the  Jolly  Beggars — and  was 


322  THE  LONDON  SPY 

the  beginning  of  a  casual  acquaintance  which  has 
meant  much  delight  for  me. 

Here  are  the  true  Bohemians,  living  In  the  true 
Bohemia.  They  wear  soiled  linen,  not  for  fun  or 
for  distinction,  but  because  they  cannot  get  clean 
linen.  They  are  often  unshaven,  not  from  cult  or 
negligence,  but  because  shaves  cost  money.  They 
would  delight  in  a  clean  change  every  day,  In  Sa- 
vlle  Row  clothes,  and  goodly  restaurants,  and  sound 
Burgundies  and  well-furnished  homes,  in  place  of 
their  shabbiness,  their  eating-house,  their  half-pint  of 
stout,  and  their  L.  C.  C.  room.  But,  had  they  all 
these  things,  they  would  still  be  Bohemians.  They 
have  the  right  spirit. 

It  is  among  men  like  these  that  you  will  find  that 
spirit.  You  will  find  It  at  the  meetings  of  the  East 
Ham  Cage-Bird  Society.  You  will  find  It  at  the 
Annual  Outing  of  the  Barnsbury  Licensed  Victual- 
lers' Association.  You  will  find  It  at  Alexandra  Park, 
where,  upon  occasions,  the  huskies  and  rough-necks 
of  the  town  gather  round  that  corrugated  asphalt 
called  the  Turf.  You  will  find  it  at  the  dinners  of 
the  Ice  Cream  Retailers'  Association.  You  will  find 
it  at  the  New  Year  Festival  of  the  Dalston  Dahlia 
and  Chrysanthemum  Society.  You  will  find  It  at  the 
dinners  of  the  Antediluvian  Order  of  Great  Elks,  of 
Druids  and  Buffaloes.  You  will  find  It  in  Upper  St. 
Martin's  Lane,  outside  Aldrldge's  where  the  taxi- 
men  join  the  horse-and-harness  men  over  basins  of 


IN  THE  STREETS  OF  DON'T-CARE     323 

stewed  eels.  You  will  find  it  at  the  Monthly  Socials 
of  the  Street  Traders'  Brotherhood;  and  you  will 
find  it  in  good  measure  at  the  in-aid-of  meeting  of 
any  benevolent  fraternity,  where  there  is  "roast"  at 
one  end  of  the  table  and  "boiled"  at  the  other,  and 
where  the  canakin  clinks,  and  good  fellowship  and 
hearty  quarrels  go  hand  in  hand. 

"Mister  Chairman,  I  wish  to  report  that  the 
genelman  on  my  right  has  used  an  offensive  expres- 
sion." 

"Siddown!    Siddown!" 

"If  'e  says  it  again,  'e'll  get  my  tankard  in  'is 
chops." 

"Siddown!  Lessave  a  song  from  old  George. 
Come  on,  George." 

"I  bin  in  the  business  forty  years  now,  and  I  ain't 
gointer  be  told  that — " 

"Siddown,  yeh  fool.  Somebody  pull  'is  coat-tails. 
Where's  old  George?  Come  on,  George — The  Tar- 
paulin  JacketV 

"  'E  ain't  got  no  right  to  say — " 

"Will  yeh  SIDDOWN,  Gubbins !  We  don't  wan- 
cher.     We  want  old  George !" 

"Not  until  'e  takes  it  back!" 

"Mr.  Chairman,  I  rise  to  'pologise.  I  take  It 
back.  I  oughter  known  better  than  dispute  with  a 
man  old  enough  to  be  me  farver." 

"Old  enough  to  be  yer — " 

"Nah  stop  it — you've  'ad  yer  'pology.     Jus'  'ave 


324.  THE  LONDON  SPY 

a  drink  together  and  fergit  it.  We  come  'ere  fer 
peace  and  quietness.     Now,  altogether  boys: 

There  is  a  tavern  in  the  tozvn, 
In  the  Town!" 

And  Mr.  Gubbins  and  his  offender  see  each  other 
home,  in  glorious  amity,  through  the  midnight  alleys 
of  Bohemia. 


THE  END 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 

This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


JAN  2  1 1949 
tCB  2  3  1950 


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